


In The End Where It Began

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: "Look after him Lestrade.  He's not as strong as he thinks he is."After Sherrinford, Mycroft Holmes tried to rebuild his personal life as well as work on this tenuous friendship that DI Lestrade insists on having.  But in the shadows, someone is making a play for Holmes' seat at the table.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 49
Kudos: 114
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_n/gifts).



> Dedicated to A_N 
> 
> Also a huge "Thank You!" to my beta readers, Hippiechick and Anarfea for reading over this. You are both amazing!

His mother always knew how to strike into the heart of him. 

In Mycroft’s younger years, after Eurus was gone, taken and taken care of by Uncle Rudy, his mother knew exactly where to strike to best hurt him. 

His parents were good people, distraught over the removal of their youngest child to a mental facility that said they could help her. They had no time in their own grief for a traumatized little boy or the older brother wondering where his place was now.

When Sherlock began showing signs of not remembering Eurus or the rewrite of Redbeard as the family dog, his parents decided it would be best to humor him and began taking away all memories of their youngest sister. Soon it was as if she had never existed, a fact that both relieved and terrified Mycroft. If his parents could put away one child so easily and with little fuss, how easy would it be for them to pack away another child?

While Mycroft tried to reach out to Sherlock, their Uncle Rudy began taking an interest in Mycroft as the heir to his seat in the Government. He taught Mycroft how not to feel, how to turn his heart into a block of ice so that even his mother’s sharpest barbs would not sting him. 

Mycroft excelled at these lessons, the need to not feel the stinging disappointment that came with his mother’s words, driving him forward. These lessons, however, came with a price: his younger brother. Sherlock, feeling abandoned by his big brother and no longer having the context for his fears, began acting out. 

What was once a close relationship between the brothers began splitting apart, with Sherlock pulling away from Mycroft’s dependability as he grew older and instead turning to drugs to numb unknown and unconscious pain and trauma that had no context.

All of this and more ran through Mycroft’s mind while trapped in a cell made of white and glass. He sat on the edge of what had been Eurus’ bed, suit rumpled, composure scattered, memories running round and round in his mind. He failed. He failed and because of that Sherlock was lost to him, in the clutches of their sister who felt the need to enact revenge for sins only she knew of. It was either that or she was planning to carry out what she failed all those years ago when his brother was a curly haired five year old who only wanted to be a pirate. 

The lights in the silent empty room clicked on and Mycroft looked up, the heart he had so carefully hidden away from everyone suddenly pounding against his chest, so heavy and hard that he thought he might be having a myocardial infarction. Men in black military gear rushed into the room as he stood to meet his jailer. It wasn’t until he saw the figure dressed in a blue sheath dress and needle thin heels that he realized that they were, in fact, his salvation.

Mycroft had never seen any form of expression on his assistant’s face save her trademark placid bored expression. An expression she had perfected during her time working with him. A hint of a smile, the slightest of an upturned corner of her lip might happen rarely, but usually, she was focused, loyal and silent.

While she didn’t smile as she stood at the edge of his cage, as the men in black around her worked to open the cage, her eyes said everything.

She only approached once the door was open, the almost invisible piece of glass slid from its moorings. It was easy to understand how Sherlock, in the excess of information, ego and revelations, missed the fact that the glass had been gone during the previous tête à tête. 

“Sir.” 

It was the only word she spoke but to him, it spoke volumes

_ We’ve found you. _

_ Let’s go home. _

_ We thought you were lost. _

She held out a coat, black and long, It would cover him, keep him warm, protect him. In her other hand, his umbrella. To lean on, to protect. 

On shaky legs he stood, paused, then began the walk towards the exit, towards her. 

“How did you find me?” 

He was beside her now, the question pitched only for her ears only. The look she gave him as she slid the coat over his shoulders, smoothed it out, told him everything. 

_ As if I would give up on you. _

Hand gripped tight against the handle of the umbrella, he nodded once. 

“You can catch me up as we walk.” he said. Mycroft took two steps before the blackness swirled around his vision and he crumpled to the floor, the startled shouts and immediate scrambling lost to him. 

  
  


================================================================

Lord Stuart Westgrave, 143 rd in line to the throne, knew what he wanted. And he had the patience to get it. Being 143 rd in line to the throne had taught him patience. He understood that he would never take his rightful place on that throne, but each day put him one step closer. Each day, one of the 142 others died, abdicated, left the country, didn’t even know. Provided those bloody brothers ceased having children, Westgrave could rest easy in the knowledge that he was still in line and his number was lessening.

It was the same with his career. He wanted to be close to the Crown, thought it his right as one in the line of succession. He had plotted and schemed and eventually moved himself just on the outskirts of that small inner organization that was closest to the Crown. That minor department in the British Government that, he knew, ran England. He wanted inside. He needed inside. It was his birthright, to rule. And if he couldn’t do it as King then he would do it behind the scenes. 

He just needed to be patient. 

After two years of prowling the outer perimeter of this job, waiting for even the smallest crack that he would be able to work his way into, his patience had finally paid off with the arrest of one Mrs. Vivian Norbury, attaché to Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Westgrave immediately went to work. Plotting, scheming, paying off the right people who could drop his name into the right ears and work him into the right conversations worked to his advantage; he was assigned to the role of Lady Smallwood’s attaché. 

He was in. 

His next move was to take the coveted role. The King of this little chessboard. The one with both the power and the Crown’s ear. To do that, he would need to topple the opposing King. He needed to get rid of Mycroft Holmes.

Westgrave stepped into a calamity of panic. With Norbury gone, Lady Smallwood was at a loss of how to put the stopper into any more leaks and desperate to separate herself from further controversy by any means necessary. Norbury had been with Smallwood for decades, and had known all of the inner workings of her position, as a seasoned, trusted and excellent assistant should. First order of business was to gain Smallwood’s ear, her trust. Within weeks the illusion of order was restored and he had gained Smallwood’s appreciation. 

One step closer. 

Months after his addition to the team, his patience, it seemed, had been rewarded with one word, spoken in whispers in empty rooms, around darkened hallways, always with a furtive glance as if someone would hear and retribution would be swift. 

Sherrinford.

It was ridiculously easy to get information about the group of people in the circle. The assistants were well used and close to a lot of the proceedings of the circle of people in the department. While they never gave information that could have gotten them not only fired but hauled up on treason charges, the general complaining was just enough for Westgrave to gather information needed in order to begin working his way up. 

The only frustrating holdout was from the assistant he needed the information from most. Anthea was unwaveringly loyal to Mycroft Holmes and while the others complained about their bosses, Anthea never did. She never spoke to the others outside pleasantries, never laughed, never looked angry. She was an enigma he couldn’t decipher. 

Even his well rehearsed quips, questions were never answered. Seemingly random comments she would ignore. He couldn’t even get her confirmation on tiny things about the other members, the color of Sir Edwin’s tie, the amount of drink Lord Stanley had at the last dinner party. 

Holmes instilled a fierce loyalty in his assistant. It was either that or she was receiving extra benefits that the others did not. Briefly Westgrave wondered if he could use that, even the threat of impropriety to his advantage. Even if it wasn’t true, it was enough to put the hint into everyone else’s mind. 

It would have to be done carefully of course. It wouldn’t do to have it linked back to him. 

The King had just returned to the chess board and Westgrave didn’t want to show his advantage this early in the game. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_ “I’m not asking how you did it, idiot boy, I’m asking how could you?” _

_ “Then he’s very limited.” _

_ “Sherlock. Well? You were always the grown-up.” _

The Iceman had returned. But perhaps not as cold as he once was. Resurfaced memories and new familial obligations were a new priority, Mycroft had to learn to negotiate this new world. A brother with all of his memories, good and bad, as well as the emotional context to now understand everything as well as parents that would now be around more than their usual bi-annual visit to London to bully him into taking them to a musical.

He was forced to juggle his new found personal life with his professional, a task he was finding daunting. For years he had built his world, his persona, his life up only to have it felled by one swift twist of his baby sister’s whim. 

It was all untangling and no matter how hard he tried, Mycroft could not retie it all together. 

“Sir?”

Wearily Mycroft looked up from his laptop. Anthea stood there, poised and silent, a tenseness to her stance. 

His mind ran back through the day. Had he said something, done something to upset her, to make her unnerved? 

“It is nearing five, Sir.” she spoke again, her voice as it always was but there was something, a hint. 

“You can go. I’ll be here a few more hours I’m afraid.” he answered finally, returning his attention back to the laptop. “Too much to catch up on while I was away.’

“Was Lady Smallwood not taking over some of the duties?”

Mycroft looked up again. His assistant never questioned his comments, never questioned anything about the Circle. 

  
“She has for the time being, however, she cannot take over all of my duties. And there are plenty to be done. Plenty that had been neglected in my time away.” A subtle dig at her order of having him sent to hospital, even if it was only for a day. The extra day away had set him back three weeks and while it was not Anthea’s fault  _ This was all Eurus, wasn’t it, sister mine? You wanted to watch us fall like Victor, right down that well of black water and despair _ , he needed to be cranky at someone and she was right there. 

To her credit, she did not flinch. Did not acknowledge the barbed hit in any fashion. Instead she nodded. 

“I’ll bring you a tray and a pot of tea before I leave for the evening.” she stated. Then, in an uncharacteristic moment, “You need to eat, Sir.”

He said nothing. But he inclined his head in acknowledgement of her comment. The tell tale clicks of her heels receded from the room followed by the soft click of the door. Only then, did Mycroft allow his head to fall into his hands. 

  
  


==================================================================

  
  


Sherrinford had raised its head once more, this time in connection with the name of Holmes. The explosion and disappearance of Holmes had sent the inner circle to close up, a veil of silence not even the assistants could infiltrate. None except Anthea. She walked in as if she were on the board herself, her role as Holmes’ assistant a mere formality.

It infuriated Westgrave. He wanted that power, that ability to step into the inner circle, have his voice heard, have those soft bellied has-beens like Smallwood and Sir Edwin listen to him for once, stumble over themselves to follow his directions for once. 

He’d been fortunate enough to discover that Lady Smallwood had a bit of a …thing for Holmes, had invited him for drinks in her personal space. An invitation he never took up because of Sherrinford. This could work to his advantage. He could use Anthea to push that advantage. 

In the canteen, through casual chatting with the other assistants, Westgrave had managed to hint at improprieties between Holmes and Anthea, the ease in which she traversed between assistant to Holmes and member of the Circle. How she was able to order men who, in theory, should have been her superiors. Her alleged access into places even they weren’t allowed to enter. 

Westgrave didn’t know the particulars regarding this mysterious Sherrinford, but Holmes had been discovered, MI 6 called, Scotland Yard called. Westgrave figured that was the end of Holmes, gleefully plotted how he could make himself invaluable to Smallwood, ingratiate himself further, and take over that empty chair at the table. Life was looking up. 

The next morning, Westgrave cheerfully arrived, briefcase in hand, coffee in the other, and almost ran into Mycroft Holmes striding into the office, Anthea trailing close behind almost as a shadow. Her ever present phone was in her hands but for once her full attention was not on it. Westgrave paused, his mood dropping as if a cloud covered his bright appearance, watching the two as they passed walking towards the private lifts that took them down to the lower levels. There was something different, something that had rattled even the stalwart Anthea. Something that could unseat Holmes. Westgrave needed to discover what it was. 

“Holmes looks a little…pale, wouldn’t you say?” 

This was to Lady Smallwood as he was bringing in her afternoon tea. He loathed menial jobs like this, he was better than serving tea and biscuits to people who got their jobs by virtue of who they knew

“I’m worried about Mr. Holmes. He looks run down. Do you think someone should mention it to his assistant?” he continued, nonplussed at her lack of a response. He noticed the pause in her page turning and knew she was listening to him. “I couldn’t help but notice in yesterday’s meeting, Mr. Holmes looked a little…well, tired.”

He poured her tea, adding the liberal splash of brandy she drank with it and slid it across her desk. 

“Thank you, Stuart.” She took a sip then turned back to her papers. “Distracted? How?”

He held the smile threatening to form on his lips. “It’s not my place to say, of course, but Mr. Holmes is always so alert, focused, a formidable figure. He just looked tired today, or perhaps he had something on his mind.” He shook his head as he slid the plate holding a scone onto the desk. “Never mind, it’s not my place. I’m sure Anthea has him sorted.”

“Hmmm. I’ll speak with him,” was all she said.

“Very good mum.” He answered when what he wanted to do was grin in triumph. The thought was in her head now and she would see him in their next meeting in a different light. One more move on the chessboard for him. If he could convince not only Smallwood but perhaps Sir Edwin as well, there could be a dissenting majority that would begin to speak towards the inability of Mycroft Holme in regards to his job. All Westgrave had to do was keep turning the strings from the background and let everything fall where they may.


	3. Chapter 3

“My brother is quickly unraveling.”

The comment came out of nowhere, and Greg glanced up from his computer, glasses perched on the end of his nose. His office that was empty moments before, now held one Consulting Detective standing straight, attention seemingly fixed on his mobile.

“Those glasses make you look old.” Sherlock continued, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell in the middle of Greg’s office. “When did you start wearing glasses?”

“When sitting for hours in front of a computer and printouts began hurting my eyesight,” Greg responded, pulling the reading glasses from his face and putting them on his desk. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Blue green eyes glanced up at him before returning to the mobile screen.

“Lestrade, I wonder at your rank if you did not even notice me walk through your office door. If you can’t tell when someone is approaching your office, how in the world do you find clues at a crime scene?”

Greg leaned back in his chair. 

“Get out,” he said flatly. ‘If you’re going to insult me, you can leave.”

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes as he pocketed his mobile. His hands went behind his back and he looked a little like a soldier standing at attention in front of his desk. 

“I need your help.”

“Let me guess. You’re bored and need a case?”

“What? No?” The inquisitive gaze roamed over Greg’s desk. “Unless you have something interesting.”

“A robbery in Leeds and a jumper fished from the Thames,” he grinned. “It’s been shipped to Barts if you’re interested?”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change. “Perhaps later. For now, however, my request.”

“A request? Not a demand, then.”

“I don’t demand.” Sherlock’s stone faced continence broke slightly and Greg caught a hint of the unsure young man he remembered seeing the first night he found him on the street, on the edge of an overdose and halfway to mania. 

“Do I?”

“It’s a trait I find you two tend to share.” Greg replied, not willing to hurt the younger man but also needing to find his way with this new version of Sherlock. The previous was easy, bloody annoying, but easy. This new version of Sherlock, the finally put together Sherlock, Greg was having issues working through. And he didn’t have time to coddle this new version of Sherlock. Best to leave that to his...well, whatever John and Molly were to him now. 

“Your request?” He continued. Sherlock stood silently, gaze fixed firmly. So firmly that Greg was beginning to get uncomfortable. He did not want to be deduced because the git was bored. 

“Sherlock.” His voice was firm and seemed to snap the consulting detective out of whatever thoughts he was having. 

“I need you to look after my brother.”

“You already asked that.” Greg countered. Sherlock gave him a look. 

“I meant, for more than a quick random check in at the surgery they had set up for him after the...incident. He has no one, Lestrade.” 

Greg ran his tongue over his teeth as he contemplated that comment. “He has you.”

At this, Sherlock smiled. “Yes, a still broken younger brother whom he has always needed to take care of. I can barely look after myself, Lestrade, much less even begin to figure out what it is my brother truly needs. Because he needs something.”

Moving, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite the desk so fast, Greg leaned back a little further in his own desk chair. 

“He’s gone back to work. Didn’t even take twelve hours off. Ever since Mu...our mother tore into him with her razor sharp words, he has been incommunicado. I can’t even get past Anthea who seems to have made it her life’s mission to thwart me at every turn. Thwart everyone it seems, nobody has seen him.” 

It didn’t sound good. He knew what it meant to drown yourself in work after a traumatic event. It’s what he did after the divorce. Threw himself into work. Didn’t emerge until months later just in time to deal with the Moriarty trial and all the hell that went down after that. 

“Well if...whomever this is, is thwarting everyone-”

“Do not play obtuse, Lestrade, you know exactly who Anthea is.”

Dammit, he did. She was who met him at the entrance of the clinic, blue sheath dress and black heels that took a balancing act in order to stand, looking very much like the avenging angel in Chanel. She also was the one who had let him in to see Mycroft, make sure he was fine. Those honey eyes softened just a little when Greg had explained his case. She’d given him three minutes, no more. Which ended up being more than enough time as Mycroft was asleep and Greg couldn’t have talked to him anyway. 

_ The so-called iceman was lying silently in a bed, blankets up to his chest. His breathing was peaceful and for the first time since Greg had met him, the man looked relaxed. The lights from the outside shone through the tiny cracks in the curtains, where they didn’t quite meet, but the light was not disturbing the man in the bed. The light seemed to stop just at the bed as if even it were scared of awakening him. There was an IV pump to the right side of the bed, the tube running down until it disappeared under the blanket. Greg assumed Mycroft was attached to it. He couldn't take his eyes off of the sleeping man. The angular features dulled by the shadows of the room, the sharp nose, thin lips parted slightly in sleep. Eyelashes too long brushed his face and his hair, usually so perfectly managed, fell slightly over his forehead in a curl. He was mesmerizing. So much so that he didn’t hear the polite quiet clearing of a throat until it was done a second time.  _

_ Anthea stood by the door, a knowing expression on her face. Chagrined, he took one last look at the sleeping Mycroft before leaving the room.  _

_ “I assure you, Detective Inspector,” she had said once the door was firmly closed behind her and they were once again in the hallway. “As soon as he awakens, he will be back behind his desk as if this never happened.” _

_ “The IV,” Greg asked, taking note of the flash of distaste that crossed her features and not knowing if it was directed towards her last statement or his first. “What happened?” _

_ A pause.  _

_ “Mr. Holmes was...injected with a neurotoxin that lasted several hours. He was also given a dose of benzodiazepine that he did not react well to. The IV is to flush his system while he sleeps. Our people had to inject him with Propofol once he was secured.” _

_ Greg winced. That amount of drugs in the system at once time, especially for a person who prided himself on his ironclad control.  _

_ As if reading his mind, Anthea nodded. “He was not...well when we found him. But he will be. At least physically.” _

_ Her face lit up in a smile that arrived and faded like the sun passing through clouds. “I appreciate you coming to check on him, Detective Inspector. I know Mr. Holmes the younger has had a traumatic experience as well but he has people he can turn to. Mr. Holmes…” Her voice trailed off and Greg knew what she wasn’t saying.  _

_ He had no one. _

_ “Let him know I stopped by, yeah?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Mycroft wouldn’t accept his vulnerability. “Just...drop me a text from time to time. Let me know how he is? I know you have my number.” _

_ That smile appeared again, this time knowing.  _

_ “From time to time, Detective Inspector.” she agreed.  _

  
  


“So what makes you think he’ll see me?” Greg asked. “If she’s thwarting everyone else.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed once more and this time, Greg knew he was being deduced. 

“Anthea will let you in.” he eventually answered. “Out of everyone that has tried to gain admittance, she’ll allow it to you.”

“Fine.” He had been thinking of at least texting Anthea to see how Mycroft was doing anyway. She hadn’t messaged him in a week and he was nervous about that. “But I’m letting you know now, I’m not reporting back to you. I told your brother no when he first approached and I'm telling you no now. I’m not playing spy for the Holmes brothers.”

The relaxed shrug of shoulders told him f _ air enough.  _

“Thank you Greg.”

Greg blinked at the sudden sincerity in Sherlock’s voice. As well as using the correct name. Another thing he would have to get used to in this new version of Sherlock Holmes.

And just like that, the sincere conversation was over. 

“The jumper in the Thames?” Sherlock rose from the chair almost as gracefully as he fell into it. 

“Yeah.” Greg rose as well, and went for his coat. “Middle Eastern male in his thirties, found this morning.”

“You don’t think it’s suicide.”

They left the office together, walking through the larger bullpen and towards the exit. 

“In this town? Nothing is a suicide until all other possibilities are eliminated.”

  
  


================================================================

  
  


Westgrave spotted the silver haired man before anyone else did. Even in an area full of people walking in and out, this man stuck out. Wrinkled dress trousers that looked as if they’d seen better days, white shirt with a hint of coffee on the collar, rumpled jacket, scuffed shoes just barely able to be called business. Yet, Westgrave had the inkling that he’d seen this unkempt older man before. Sir Edwin’s assistant, Rothschild, gave him the answer. Rothschild, an aging dinosaur of a proper British man who preferred tradition and lineage rather than what he called these “carefree, disrespectful sorts” of assistants some of the others used. Rothschild did not like Anthea, he thought her too uppity. Didn’t know her place. Westgrave liked Rothschild. The man was as far away from political correctness as one could get. Something that could potentially hurt Sir Edwin should he be called on it. But Rothschild reminded him of an old butler, polite to one’s face, even if he felt that you were not worthy to step on his rugs.

“I believe that is Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the older man sniffed. “Holmes keeps him on as a babysitter to his younger brother. Bohemian.” 

It was obvious from the man’s tone that he held no love for the erstwhile Consulting Detective and younger brother to Holmes. “A blight on the family name, and yet Holmes lets him run roughshod around London. Had that man keep an eye on him. Not a very good Detective in my opinion.”

Another sniff.

Not very many people were of a decent sort in Rothschild’s opinion. But he liked Westgrave. Thought him a right sort of gentleman. Which Westgrave used to his advantage. Doddering old fool didn’t even know he was giving out private secrets. Just talked and Westgrave let him, all the while gathering any bit of information Rothschild gifted him. 

Westgrave watched the Detective Inspector as he made his way to the lifts that would take him to the lower level offices. He must have been sent for, which meant that the youngest Holmes must have done something. Something that involved Sherrinford. 

Perhaps the youngest Holmes brother was the key to getting into the Circle. Expose his brother, expose Mycroft Holmes. 

It all revolved around Sherrinford. And Westgrave had to discover what it was. 

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Anthea didn’t look surprised to see him as Greg stepped off of the lift and into the darkened hallway that led to places he normally wouldn’t be allowed. In fact, Greg shouldn’t have been able to reach this area in the first place, which meant he had help. 

“Good afternoon Detective Inspector.” Her soft cultured voice rang out as he approached. “I’m afraid Mr. Holmes is unavailable at present.”

Greg didn't say anything until he reached where she stood. No need for any invisible ears to hear anything he might say to her. 

“Afternoon Anthea. Hadn’t heard from you in a while, thought I’d stop by and check in, see how you are.”

Despite just telling him he wasn’t welcome, a fact they both knew was incorrect, she began walking down the hallway, allowing him to follow after. 

“You’re very kind Lestrade. I am well, thank you. Just another day at the office.”

She led him through a sturdy oak door, making sure it was closed behind her. Her office was plush, the thick carpet of a dark green contrasted perfectly with the dark brown stained walls. Behind her was an open doorway that housed a hallway which led to Mycroft’s office. 

“Sherlock spoke to you, didn’t he?” she asked, already knowing the answer. 

Greg shrugged. “He said you wouldn't let him past your office” He raised an eyebrow. “Said you’d let me through though. Why is that?”

She met his gaze with an elegant eyebrow lift of her own as if to say  _ you and I both know why. _

“As I’ve said, Mr. Holmes is unavailable at present.”

“So if I were to hang around your office for another five minutes?”

Her red stained lips curved up ever so slightly. “I should be heading towards the staff room to pick up my lunch. I can’t stop you from going through that doorway and into Mr Holmes’ office if I am not at my desk.”

His smile matched hers for a brief moment then faded. 

“Seriously, Anthea. How is he?”

Anthea paused, glancing back toward the hallway as if hesitant to speak out against her employer. Then she turned back.

“You know I would never say anything against my employer, Lestrade.” she began. “All I can say is that he's been...very dedicated to his work. Sometimes staying after he’s dismissed me and arriving before I do. I can’t say if he’d spent the evening on multiple occasions before, it’s not my place to know, but he is often wearing suits that look strikingly similar to the suits worn the day prior.”

Everything she didn’t say gave Greg the bigger picture. Mycroft wasn’t doing well, wasn’t taking care of himself. There was an entire network designed to make sure Sherlock was distracted, watched over, assisted when he stumbled, but for Mycroft, there was only Anthea and even she was limited by the basis of her position. 

“Well, if you don't mind, I’m just going to have a seat for a moment, rest my feet.” He sat in one of the plush chairs, lamenting over why these weren’t standard for his office, it was comfortable. “It’s been a long day and I could use a rest before making my way back to the lift to head home.”

“Of course Detective Inspector. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be only a moment. I will ask that you remain here.”

He tossed her a half salute as she opened the door to her office and walked out, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Greg waited a beat, then another before he stood up and passed through the entryway. The hall beyond Anthea’s office was dark and Greg could barely make out the door. Every few steps were illuminated by light from the ceiling, the carefully camouflaged slats of sunlight from the above open area. To his left, a grey painted closed door almost blended in with the shadows. 

Greg knocked twice, the illusion of politeness before he opened the door and stepped in. 

Inside, the office was stark and grey. The light streaming in from the camouflaged glass in the ceiling as well as the small desk lamp sitting on the corner of the thick wooden desk. 

In the middle of this room Mycroft sat, his head down and focused on his laptop. He had glanced up at the knock and the door opening and his expression was that of someone who, for the moment, wasn’t sure where he was.

Greg’s heart went out to him. 

===================================================================

  
  


Mycroft’s head lifted tiredly at the two sharp raps against his door. 

Anthea didn’t knock, she just came in, silent and still, bringing whatever he needed with only a well placed wrinkle of her nose or furrow of her brow to let him know her thoughts.

He wasn’t in a place to accept anyone else nor to be rude enough to dismiss them. 

He was tired. Worn. But to show even a hint of that was to admit his failures and in this office, it was like fresh blood in a den of lions. 

The last person he was expecting to walk through that door was Detective Inspector Lestrade yet, the sight of the steel haired man was both a balm and a hindrance to him. 

“Ah,” Mycroft struggled to smooth his tie and stand in one motion. “Detective Inspector, I was not aware we had an appointment today.”

The door shut behind Lestrade and for a moment, Mycroft had the impression of being trapped.

“We don’t,” Lestrade said casually as he began slowly crossing the room, the carpet masking his steps. “Had some time after work and thought I’d stop by, see how you were.”

_ Sherlock _

Mycroft felt a mixture of annoyance and gratitude towards his troublesome younger brother. While the man himself would never fully admit to worry or even to care- it was something they both did, lashed out at the first sign of compassion -Mycroft understood the long standing silent worry they both shared. They may have fought or outwardly professed to despise each other, but lo to anyone who hurt their sibling. 

Until Eurus. 

Sherlock’s newly discovered emotional context changed their rules and Mycroft was struggling to re-find the balance.

“As you can see,” he lifted his hands as he slowed to a halt before Lestrade. “I am perfectly well. You can tell Sherlock he can cease his mollycoddling and instead bestow it on someone more deserving. His goddaughter perhaps.”

Lestrade, to his utter annoyance, didn’t move, didn’t speak. Heaving a huge sigh, Mycroft turned to walk back to his desk. He didn’t have time to deal with placating Detective Inspectors.

“Sherlock did come to my office today,” Lestrade said, confirming Mycroft’s deduction. “But I would’ve come anyway. I guess you don’t remember me coming to the hospital.”

His footsteps faltered and he turned his head slightly, not enough to see the man behind him but to let him know that Mycroft’s attention was had. Lestrade continued and Mycroft could hear the approaching footsteps on wood. 

“I visited you. At the hospital. You were out of it. Had an IV in to flush out the drugs in your body. Tried to keep tabs on you after but couldn’t find anyone willing to give me any information.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure if that was a lie or not. Couldn’t tell by the tone of Lestrade’s voice, wasn’t sure Anthea would decide between absolute loyalty or genuine concern. Couldn’t be bothered at the moment to seek out the truth for himself.

“In the end, I ended up pulling tricks out of your book.” Could hear the grin in Greg’s voice. “You’re not the only one who can requisition the CCTV feed.”

Mycroft spun on his heels to look askance at Lestrade. While the Met had allowances for access to the CCTV, it wasn’t something they could just pull up nonsensically. The smug grin on Lestrade’s face told him that he’d been caught out.

“Got ya.” He said. “I just did it the old fashion way.”

“I can assure you, Detective Inspector,” there was a chill to his tone but not the hard as ice tone he was going for, (He must concentrate on the matter at hand.)

_ They were always going on about how you were the smart one. _

_ I am the smart one. _

“That spying is a treasonous offense found under the Security Act of-“

“But it’s okay to kidnap not only a public citizen but a member of the Metropolitan Police Department off the street in broad daylight and whisk him away to a secure location to threaten him?” Lestrade interrupted, his voice calm. 

“I did not threaten you.” All pretense of calm was gone and Mycroft felt the weariness seeping into his bones. 

_ I was a genius but she…she was incandescent. _

“Intimidated, perhaps, but never threatened.”

Lestrade kept that easy smile and rocked back on his heels in a manner Mycroft found unnerving. He wanted the man to leave. Wanted to be alone again so he could just finish this damnable work and go home where he would spend another evening sitting in his lounge with a tumbler of bourbon and just be. He didn’t need anyone watching over him. He didn’t need his brother sending people to check up on him, he didn’t need this maddening compassionate man checking up on him.

**I just want to be left alone!**

He blinked as Greg’s eyes widened and jaw loosened as if not sure if he’d heard something.

_ Oh dear, did I say that out loud?  _

He frowned, quickly running the conversation back in his mind as if to confirm that, indeed, for the first time in decades, his steel trap mind had let slip at an inopportune time.

_ You’re slipping, Mycroft. _

“Let’s go.” Greg’s voice, while calm was also firm.

A sharp shake of the head was his answer.

“I can’t possibly.” Excuses, all of them, but they were all he had. “I have, there are documents to be researched, analysis to be done. Meeting to prep-“

“All of which can be done tomorrow or at your office at the Diogenes Club.” Greg countered. “You can retire to your private room there and be on call should anyone need you. But it would be a place to unwind. To talk.”

“I don’t need to talk.” Mycroft snapped, the fire reigniting in his chest. How dare this man come into his private office and order him around like a child? He was a high-ranking member of the British Government. This was intolerable! 

“What I need are people to stop putting their nose into my business and to stop placating me! I am not a child that needs tending to!”

Greg folded his arms across his chest. 

“Do you feel better now?” he asked lightly. “Or do you need another strop?”

“I…” He’d never lost control like that before. What was happening?

“Look.” A hint of steel was behind Greg’s words. “I know you don’t get the concept of friendship and don’t feel like you deserve anyone but it’s a bit late for that now. We’re friends, get used to it. Or don’t. But you know you can trust me, I still remember the kidnapping that proved it. And because we’ve known each other for so long, and because we’re friends, I’m gonna use a bit of tough love now. Get your laptop, get your overcoat and brolly and let’s go to the Diogenes Club. And,” he held up a finger as Mycroft was about to open his mouth to protest, “if you complain, we will bypass the club and go straight to your house.” Again, those arms folded across his chest. “Your choice Mycroft.”

_ Outplayed, outmaneuvered by sheer brute force. How pedantic.  _ Heads. Would. Roll.

Back stiffening with indignation and pride - he would not allow the Detective Inspector to believe for one second that he had won - Mycroft walked to his desk, dialed a number, shut down and locked up his laptop.

The phone rang once in the large room before clicking a connection.

“Sir?” Anthea’s voice was expressionless. He had taught her too well. 

“Forward any calls to my office at the Diogenes Club.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Lestrade stood by the door waiting for him. Turning the key in his desk lock a little harder than necessary, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and stalked out of his office, chased off by the Detective Inspector and the ghosts that would not leave his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Months. Tediously long and maddingly slow months.

Greg was patient, he had always been patient. 

It had been a slow process, this friendship with Mycroft Holmes. The man was hurting, torn asunder by the events of Sherrinford. 

While Sherlock was slowly healing, supported by those he loved and who loved him in return, being taught how to be a real boy after thirty plus years of buried trauma and horror, Mycroft had none of that. Forced to remember what his baby brother was blissfully allowed to forget, a visual reminder of his perceived failings, feeling less than, disposable.

Greg had sat in expensive leather chairs, drank expensive whisky and patiently, over months, listened without comment as Mycroft slowly, painfully began to speak about his personal life. 

It cut Greg to the quick to sit silently and listen to stories of neglect, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting. The absence of support he received from his parents, who were caught up in their own grief of one child sent away and the other who had so effectively erased parts of his life because of trauma that they didn’t pay attention to the one child who seemed to be handling it well. So tied up with their own grief that they didn’t reach out to make sure their oldest was indeed emotionally secure. While he didn’t approve, he understood. No, Greg’s disgust was held for the uncle Mycroft spoke of. The member of the House of Commons, of MI 6, who saw a damaged lonely boy only for potential, who took a broken child under his wing, and under the guise of assisting, pushing him to excel, used his gifts for his own benefit. That by breaking a quiet child who had a lifetime of tragedies in his short fourteen years on the planet, that Uncle had created a masterpiece of an emotionless human whose mind was beyond anything anyone could comprehend. A person who could calculate incidents before they happened, could track information in order to discover when stocks would fall, when assassination attempts could happen, when rising dictators would attempt to overthrow governments. 

Unfortunately, it seemed for that Uncle, he didn’t anticipate two things: that his eldest nephew would outshine him and leave him behind as he rose up the ranks and eventually was hired in a small department of the British Government who had tracked his potential and saw an opportunity. And that the younger brother, who had so successfully rearranged his memories would still have a strong attachment to his older brother and, feeling left behind, would react in such a purely emotional manner as acting out and turning to drugs as an escape. More so that Mycroft would still harbor guilt over not protecting Sherlock properly and took on the duty of becoming a parent to that brother who now lashed out at him at every opportunity. 

Greg wanted to shout, to jump out of that expensive leather and reach out to the man across from him, to shake his shoulders and tell him that he was only a child. That he wasn’t at fault for any of it. He didn’t deserve the guilt heaped upon him by his Uncle that his baby sister’s eccentricities could have been curtailed had Mycroft only paid more attention to her. That he didn’t deserve the emotional abuse Greg could so clearly see happened to him under the tutelage of his Uncle, that his Uncle manipulated him, gaslighted him into believing that he was responsible for the family, that only he would be able to carry on the Vernet legacy even if his name was Holmes. That Eurus was his fault, Sherlock was his fault, his parent’s neglect was his fault. Greg wanted to shout who puts a lie of a child dying on the shoulders of a sixteen-year-old boy and then expects him to carry it as well as the fresh grief of parents who believed their youngest child had died? What sort of monster builds a sixteen-year-old boy to believe that the incarceration and systematic isolation and torture of his youngest sibling is the best thing for her? That she could be used as a weapon and it would be okay?

Mycroft Holmes was just as broken as his other two siblings. And just like them, he had never had the time to heal. Unlike them, he was still not allowed the time to heal even now. None of this Greg could say. He could only sit and drink and nod and stay quiet and try to keep any form of pity from his expression.

Greg was not there because Mycroft wanted absolution. Greg was there because Mycroft needed a witness for his crimes.

=================================================================

“How is Sherlock?”

The question came one evening when they were sitting in their usual places in The Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club. It seemed like Greg’s usual place, he’d been there so often recently that he wondered if Mycroft would just hand him over a membership one day.

He looked into the amber liquid in the cut crystal tumbler in his hand, thinking over the seemingly innocuous question. After the initial request from Sherlock, he hadn’t heard anything about it from him. He’d seen Sherlock, of course, there were still cases that happened and needed his assistance to be solved.

“He’s good,” Greg finally answered. “Taking cases again. He’s less of an arse to my people.”

It was true. It was a month or so before Sherlock was open to assisting with the Yard. John had called him to let him know. The two men had arrived at the crime scene and were met by Donovan, who had been gearing for a fight. Instead of reverting to insults as he would’ve done before Musgrave, he shocked everyone by giving the Sergeant a nod and asking if he would be allowed onto the crime scene. Greg still remembered the look of surprise in Donovan’s eyes when she looked back at him and let the Consulting Detective in.

“It’s weird,” she had said after they’d left the scene, heading back to the office to open a case, leaving the cleaners to pick up the remainder of the debris. “I expected…something. A jab, a deduction, an insult, something. Is he ill?”

“He’s learning.” Greg had answered. 

And that was it, wasn’t it? Sherlock was learning. 

“From what I’ve heard, he takes more cases sent to him, has helped on a few of the cases at the Yard as well, not only homicide. It’s as if he’s making amends for something.”

Mycroft was silent, lifting his own tumbler to his lips. 

“I’m sure he sees it in that way as well,” he said. “As making amends. Whether or not this will last, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you seen him?”

“No.” The glass was placed on the small side table beside Mycroft’s chair and he straightened in his seat. “No, I’m afraid I’m the last person Sherlock wants to see.”

“Have you tried?” The subterfuge was growing tiresome. Greg knew, even before the Event, that the Holmes brothers loved each other, as much as either of them understood the version of the word. It wasn’t just guilt that made Mycroft help his brother, it was love. And Sherlock could torment the man as often as he wanted but Greg knew the signs of silent outcries of attention, he’d worked with other troubled kids when he was first starting out. Everything Sherlock did, everything he said to Mycroft was a younger brother wanting the attention and affirmation of his older brother. They just went about it in their own warped way. 

Mycroft glanced up, then back down, shaking his head. 

“No use, is there?” He sounded resigned, defeated. “Sherlock has his family, ready made and fit just for him.”

Holding the tumbler loosely in his hand, Greg leaned forward in the chair, elbows resting on his thighs. 

“I have an older sister. She’s five years older than me.” He began. An eyebrow raised.

“I am aware.” Mycroft answered. “She is married to an architect, with three children. The eldest is currently halfway through her education to follow in her father’s footsteps.”

Greg blinked. “Okay, that’s…weird. But not the point. The point is she and I never got along as kids, we fought viciously all the time. Drove our parents barmy with it. We couldn’t even sit next to each other at the supper table without a buffer. I think I was eight, my sister thirteen and much too cool to walk with her baby brother. I was cornered by a group of boys all much older on my walk home from school. Guess they wanted to throw their weight around. Anyway, I’m on the ground and this one kid is about to stomp on my hand, he was putting his whole weight on it, would’ve broken it for sure. Out of nowhere my sister came flying at him,” His free hand moves through the air in a flying motion and Mycroft was watching him silently, eyes unblinking.

“Lands on his back and just sinks her teeth into the meat of his under arm. This kid is howling, trying to get her off him. One of his buddies goes to help and she had these wicked nails I used to have to avoid because she could draw blood with them. And she did that day, the kid is yelling because she just clawed his face, dug her nails right in and yanked down. Lets go of the first kid and tells them if she sees them around me again she’d make them sing soprano.” Greg chuckles at the memory. “They never bothered me again, but I got a wicked thumping from her for making her ruin her favorite folder.”

He looks at Mycroft with a crooked twist of his lips. “Point is, I love her but even now we can’t be in the same room for longer than about two hours without starting a brawl. It’s the way we are. But anyone tries to hurt the other and bets are off. Minus the extreme violence, you and Sherlock are a little of the same. You just use words and insults instead of fists and nails.”

Looking down at his tumbler, he lifted the glass and poured the remainder of the contents into his mouth.

“Call him. Or text him, whatever it is you two do. Chances are he is over there on Baker Street trying to figure out how to reach out to you as well.”

The room was silent, the occasional pop of wood from the fireplace the only sound.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft’s voice was so low Greg almost didn’t hear him. He sagged against his chair, placing the empty glass on the small table beside his chair. “But...” 

He seemed hesitant, and Greg cocked his head in confusion. There were times, when they were like this, when he swore he could see a hint of a vulnerable side to Mycroft Holmes. Obviously, he had placed himself in a vulnerable position telling Greg about his sister and his upbringing. Someone more calculating could use it against him to elevate their own position. But this was a different sort of vulnerability. A sort that moved something deep in Greg’s chest. Made him want to reach over and cover the man’s hand with his. Made him want to tell him that all was not lost, that there was still hope for a relationship with his brother that was something other than caregiver/ patient. Something that made him want to…

“I would ask a favor from you.” Mycroft continued, oblivious or ignoring Greg’s inner thoughts. 

“Sure. What is it?”

Silence. Then, 

“You remember Musgrave, correct?”

It wasn’t as if he could ever forget it. John Watson chained in a well only minutes from drowning. Poor bastard deserved better. His daughter had almost lost a second parent that night. Sherlock, eyes red rimmed and swollen with tears, holed up in a room at the top of the burned-out house, holding tight to a sobbing woman in white scrubs. It was the most undone Greg had ever seen Sherlock and that included the night Sherlock had almost been arrested and took John Watson as a hostage.

“Yes.”

“All of it, Musgrave, Sherrinford, all my fault.” Mycroft’s gaze was focused somewhere behind Greg, so intent that Greg had to push down the urge to turn and see what he was staring at. “I grew lackadaisical, overconfident and because of that people died. John Watson almost died. My brother could not have survived the murder of another close friend.”

Greg’s eyes widened. Sweet Mary, it was true then. Their sister had killed Sherlock’s childhood best friend. John had mentioned it when they’d gone out for a pint months back, but he didn’t think it literally.

“I cannot afford to be that egocentric in my personal life again. I would ask that if you see me begin to return to my previous egocentric state, the manner in which I mistakenly believe I am above everyone, that you stop me. Say, Musgrave.”

Greg frowned. “Musgrave?”

Mycroft’s gaze shifted and Greg was pinned by ice blue eyes. “Just so, please. It will remind me of my failures. Remind me that I am…not what I pretend.”

Still confused, Greg could only nod in the affirmative. “Of course, Mycroft. Anything you say.”

It looks as if a weight had been lifted from the man’s shoulders. A sad smile graced his lips for the merest of seconds.

“Thank you. Now,” he continued, rising to his feet. “Would you care for another or do you need to head home?”


	6. Chapter 6

Call Sherlock. How pedantic. How could Mycroft ever just be expected to contact his brother out of the blue? Sherlock would see through the facade as one looked through glass. It was trite. Yet the Detective Inspector had a point. He should at least attempt to reach out to his brother, make sure all was well. Do it without going through...other means. 

But he wouldn’t know what to say. 

At this time, Sherlock was the favorite of his mother, had always been the favorite. His parents were so distraught over the fact that not only had their youngest died but their middle child had developed enough trauma to rewrite his childhood, they rewrote their own lives for him. 

Even when he was in Uni, getting high and getting kicked out of every private school Mummy and Father could put him in, it still fell upon Mycroft, who was in his own classes, to make sure Sherlock was well. To take time out of his studies in order to search doss houses, looking for his strung out younger brother. Not that Sherlock appreciated it. Mycroft had endured more than a fair amount of insults and putrid bile spewn at him, both figuratively and literally. 

He would need to figure out a way to reach out that didn’t involve just picking up the phone. 

Ironically it was the Detective Inspector who did it. 

Arriving at a crime scene, Mycroft took the umbrella offered to him as he stepped out of the car. In the distance he could see the yellow tape, the bright searchlights and the group of officers milling about. 

DI Lestrade waved, walking to him.

“Evening.” he said as he approached. “I think this is one of yours. Sherlock insisted I call you about it.” 

He jerked his head towards the brightest light, illuminating a pacing figure as well as another one standing still by a lump on the ground. Greg led him under the tape and toward the spot lamps. John lifted a hand as the two approached. 

“Hey.”

Sherlock spun around at John’s greeting, eyes narrowing as he looked at his brother. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You’ve lost at least two kilograms since I’ve last seen you.”

Mycroft sighed, already tired of this. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Sherlock.” he intoned. 

“Not flattery. Flattery is telling Molly her hair looks pretty or telling John that I like the color of his jumper-”

“Which you don’t.” John interrupted. 

“Which I never do.” Sherlock amended. “So no, you look sick.”

“If we could discuss the dead man at your feet instead?’ Mycroft said with a long suffering sigh, trying to direct them back to the case at hand. Greg squatted down, pulling back the tarp just enough so Mycroft could get a good look at the mangled body that lay beneath it. Beaten in, scarred, burned, there wasn’t enough to make out a description or even identify the body at first glance. It would have to go back to MI6 to have their forensic team look it over, verify it with DNA sequencing to get a proper identity. 

“There’s barely enough information here to discern that the body is male and caucasion, what makes you think it’s one of ours?”

Silently Sherlock handed over a cufflink.

“It was found in the lining of his jacket.” he said. Mycroft took the cufflink and flipped it over, growing cold as he recognized the design.

“You’re correct,” Mycroft’s voice was cold, distant. He had not expected to find one of the Queen’s Own dead in an abandoned project just outside London. The Head Office would have to be notified. 

“My apologies, Detective Inspector, it seems I will be taking this case from you.” His phone was already out, fingers flying over the keys. Greg shrugged. 

“We didn’t do much. Once Sherlock said it was one of yours, we’ve basically been holding it for you.” He cast a look towards the tall man almost bouncing in place. “Although your brother-”

“Let me on it. Please?” Sherlock was vibrating in anticipation. Beside him, John just shook his head with a  _ what are you going to do _ attitude. “It’s almost my birthday.”

The comment was so absurd, Mycroft almost laughed. “It is nowhere near your birthday. And even if it were, I wouldn’t give you a dead body.”

“This is why your gifts are ill thought out.”

The comment was in jest, he knew it was, yet Mycroft drew back as if slapped. John’s hand went to Sherlock’s arm and Greg stepped forward as if to buffer some of the verbal blow. 

“Nails and fists.” he said, close to Mycroft’s ear, low enough that only the man could hear. Sherlock turned to look at John who was giving him a look before turning back to Mycroft, seemingly understanding that what he had said was not good.

“That is not what I meant.” he told Mycroft. 

Taking a deep inhale, Mycroft let it out, counting to ten. His first instinct was to divert, volley with a comment. Greg was right, they hurt each other with words and verbal barbs and Sherlock still did it unthinkingly. It was up to him, as always, to be the bigger person. 

“Perhaps.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “If you can tamp down this childish enthusiasm you have, I could be persuaded to let you have a peek at the case file. It can’t hurt to have your eyes on it as well.”

Sherlock grinned, blinding, and for a moment Mycroft felt the warmth of his brother’s admiration. 

“Let me know when,” Sherlock said, phone already out, texting someone. 

“I’ll send off the wagon then?” Greg asked. 

“Hmmm? Oh yes, my people should be here shortly.”

Sherlock was already walking off, John following close behind. 

“You did a good thing.” Greg said, his hand coming to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft looked toward the man by his side, his face close enough that he could smell the mint gum he was chewing. 

“Sherlock’s help could be valuable and the Home Office knows of his gifts.”

“No. I meant the not retaliating.” Greg responded. His hand squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder. “It sucks being the big brother, especially when he pops off at the mouth before using his brain. My sister still goes barmy when I retaliate. It’s a start.”

Before Mycroft could answer, his phone beeped. Pulling it from his jacket pocket, he swiped it open to the message. 

**[ I truly did not mean it in the way you heard it. Forgive me. I am trying to learn to think before I speak. SH]**

Mycroft’s lip twitched as he put the phone back and looked at Greg. 

“Perhaps it is, Detective Inspector.”

That night, as Mycroft lay in bed, his mind went back to the scene, the apology from his brother still on his phone. The warmth of Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder, the comforting pressure of the squeeze. For once, he wondered what it was like to have a friend. Someone like Sherlock had with John, even Molly now. Someone close enough to trust with one’s livelihood. 

He thought he’d like to discover it. See if Lestrade would be that person. The man already spent afternoons and some evenings with him at the club, listening silently to him speak, sometimes there was conversation. Comfortable, friendly. Mycroft felt...safe, in that room with Lestrade. Safe was a luxury he no longer knew how to accept. Safe with a person was not an emotion he understood how to return. 

He fell asleep with the memory of mint wafting across his face. 

===================================================================

Whitehall was quiet, the lights of all of the offices turned off or dimmed. Security walking the floors, haphazardly doing their rounds. There were still a few stragglers in the building working but most everyone had gone home. 

From the promenade, Westgrave walked through the dimly lit hallway heading away from the main inner building to where the Circle, the inner sanctum of the British Government, lay. There was nothing in that area he needed and besides only the members were allowed access to that area, unlocked with only a key card they had. That hard lesson had been learned from the fiasco that was Vivan Norbury. But not enough. 

Holding the swiped key he’d pilfered from Smallwood, Westgrave slipped into the older woman’s office. 

It was dark, Smallwood had left for home hours ago. She’d given him the night off which was how he knew this was the perfect time to do a bit of digging. 

The office had a strange empty quality to it as he stepped in, shutting the door behind him. It wouldn’t do to have Security stumbling upon him while he was in here. 

The computer was off limits, there was a passcode to get in and an alarm that went directly to the owner’s mobile. If he even tried to access her laptop, she would know. Instead, he had to hope that she was as old fashioned as the rest of them and kept things in paper files as well. 

He found the safe easily, had spotted her opening it the week prior. Carefully he pressed in the code and opened it. Being her shadow for these past months had paid off. 

Inside was jewelry, a few notes and some papers. It was the papers he was interested in. Gathering them out, he flipped through them, trying to find anything regarding Sherrinford. 

Nothing.

Westgrave threw the papers onto the floor in frustration. Deeds, legal documents, property assessments, the woman’s will. But nothing on the identity of Sherrinford. 

With a snarl, Westgrave scooped up all of the pieces of paper and shoved them back into the safe half haphazardly, making sure it was locked. 

This was a waste of time. He would need to figure out how to get into the Circle, access the files through the computer there. It would be dangerous and tricky and he would need to be careful that none of this traced back to him. But Westgrave was determined. Holmes would be gone and he would take over that empty chair. And then, London and the Crown would see just how invaluable he truly was. 


	7. Chapter 7

Greg didn’t see much of anyone over the next few weeks, and his own work had been stacking up. The trips to the Diogenes Club had been put on hold during this time, with Mycroft constantly in his office. The only reports he got were random texts from John complaining about Sherlock as well as telling him about how the brothers were working together for once on this case. 

**[I admit, I’m out of my league here. And feeling a bit like a third wheel. J]**

Greg chuckled as he read the message.

**[That’s me every time I’m forced to work with you and Sherlock. G]**

**[4:30p.m. Diogenes Club. If available. MH]**

The message arrived a few days later and Greg smiled. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the quiet afternoons in the comfortable room with Mycroft until he no longer had access to it.

**[Looking forward to it! G]**

Was it the Diogenes Club he missed though? The atmosphere, the fine assortment of brandy and whisky? How the outside world seemed to melt away inside that quiet fortress?

Or was it the company? Greg mused as he worked systematically through the stacks of paperwork that littered his desk. He enjoyed the conversations with Mycroft, but there was something else. A quick beat of the heart when he spotted the familiar car. A catch in his throat when he spotted a man in a three-piece suit holding an umbrella. The goofy smile that appeared on his face when a message came through from the man.

When he was younger, Greg would have chalked it up to a crush and moved on. But he was older, older men didn’t have crushes. And they certainly didn’t have them on powerful men in the government who could destroy someone with a strategically placed word.

Actually, that was probably right in Greg’s wheelhouse.

An hour later his phone pinged again.

**[Something has come up. Please accept my apologies. MH]**

Greg frowned, disappointed. Not that he could say anything. They were friends and Mycroft’s job was like his in terms of always being on call and never really being off of work. 

Before he could decide on a reply that wouldn’t sound like he was disappointed, there was a text from John.

**[I’m supposed to tell you 999, Baker St. Come alone. We have an emergency.]**

Instantly Greg’s heart leapt into his chest. Climbing from his chair, he grabbed his jacket as he hurried out the door, fingers flying over the keyboard.

**[Do I need to call in backup? Who is it? The Americans? Jewel thief? Someone Sherlock’s managed to piss off ?]**

**[His parents. And Mycroft’s here.]**

That sent Greg into a sprint.

==================================================================

There had always been the silent summons for him alone. When Mummy called, his presence was required. Those few precious times when he could escape citing work or emergency meetings were few and far between. The state of his position was played on the world news hour upon hour and although his parents were not the stay at home and watch telly types and although they did not venture to London often to visit their offspring, each and every time they did, Mycroft had been given prior warning and with it, the implied requirement of his presence.

Two weeks of working with Sherlock had taken a toll on Mycroft. He had felt off kilter the entirety of the investigation. The Head Office had given permission for Sherlock to investigate, knowing his ability and his success rate, with the caveat that Mycroft be his liaison for the entirety of this investigation. Which meant he was out in the field doing more leg work than he had since he started in this organization. Most of it was keeping track of Sherlock. 

Two superior minds were inevitably better than one, but with that came the inevitable backbiting and comments.

_ Fists and nails _ Gregory had said, and he was right. He could now see that this was their way, it would always be their way. Even trying better, Sherlock had decades of learned behavior towards Mycroft and a few months of trying to be better was not going to stop those barbs automatically. 

Despite the assistance of John Watson, sometimes he still found himself acting like a teenager once more with a sullen child determined to torment him. Mycroft wanted to text Lestrade, missed his quiet support, his presence. He saw this for what it was, attraction. But it was one sided and could never come out into the open. Lestrade was his friend, had said so that fateful afternoon when he came to forcefully remove him from the office. Had shown it day after day while he sat in that leather chair in the Diogenes Club and listened while Mycroft had dangerously and desperately emptied his soul knowing the man would keep it safe, would hold on to it and never speak of it to anyone. 

He wished that for once he could be the emotional one.

_ He’s not about thinking, not Sherlock. No, No, he’s more...emotional, isn’t he? Unsolved case? Shoo _ t  _ the wall. Unmade breakfast? Karate chop the fridge. Unanswered question? _

_ He stabs it. _

He wanted someone who would support him, much like John Watson and Molly Hooper did for his brother. Someone he could be comfortable with, allow his carefully placed walls to lower.

“You’re mooning.” Sherlock snapped, his attention on taking down the red strings and pictures that littered his wall. The investigation was over, they’d discovered the cell responsible not only for the death of one of his organization’s agents, but for the millions of pounds of drugs that had been smuggled into the commonwealth. Mycroft had made the call and Sherlock and John had gone in with the agents to find and collect the cartel. Mycroft had overseen the operation from his vantage point just outside in the mobile transport, terrifying several of the younger, greener operatives. It had gone off perfectly and now they were wrapping up the loose ends. Mycroft had come to Baker Street to collect the evidence Sherlock had pinned up to his wall, his murder board of sorts.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock climbed across the couch, reaching up to pluck another photo from the wall, the red string attached to it falling to lie limp against the piece of tape connecting it. “After you return these to their safe place,” Mycroft could almost hear the eye roll in his brother’s tone. “Text Lestrade and have him meet you at your club.”

“I am not mooning.” Mycroft snapped. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him for a moment, just a moment and the look in his eyes set Mycroft bristling. “Sherlock, I am not a preteen girl, I don’t moon.”

Off came another photo, another string falling. “Why can’t you just admit it, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked. “There’s no shame in it.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a habit born of decades of back talking between them. Sherlock plucked the final picture from the wall  and hopped from the couch with a little bounce, hand with the photos extended towards  Mycroft. 

“I am. I know. And before I would have agreed with you.” 

“That isn’t what I meant,” Mycroft stumbled to apologize. “It didn’t mean-“

“I know,”

Mycroft took the photos from his brother’s hand. “We’ve had this conversation before, Sherlock. I’m not lonely.”

The smile on Sherlock’s face was one Mycroft had never seen before. It unnerved him. “You don’t have to be.”

“Can we please change the subject?”

“Boys,” John Watson’s sarcastic tone drifted from the kitchen. “Don’t make me put you in time out.”

Sherlock snorted as he passed Mycroft. “He uses that a lot with Rosie. Doesn’t work with her either.”

Tapping the photos into order, Mycroft paused, thought. Perhaps his brother was correct in a way. Mycroft wasn’t lonely, he wasn’t mooning, but a relaxing drink and catch up at the Diogenes Club wouldn’t go amiss. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and sent a message to Lestrade. 

**[ 4:30 Diogenes Club. If available. MH** ]

The reply vibrated his hand even before he was able to return the phone to his pocket.

**[Looking forward to it!]**

Mycroft smiled as he tucked the mobile back into his pocket.  _ Perhaps a friendship was what I needed _ , he thought as he tucked the photos into the secure pocket of his briefcase and placed it onto the coffee table beside his umbrella. 

“The Crown sends their appreciation once again Sherlock and will make sure you’re adequately compensated for your assistance.”

“Can they compensate me as well?” John asked, stepping from the kitchen with a cup of tea. “I have nursery school to pay for now.”

Mycroft bit back a smirk. “The compensation will include you as well, Doctor Watson.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You know, after all of the years we’ve known each other, you think you would call me John by now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. “He’s only just started calling Lestrade by his given name and they’ve known each other much longer.”

“And what is his given name, Sherlock?” Mycroft retorted almost playfully.

“Could you boys stop bickering for just one moment? Why is there red string littering the wall?” Came the familiar yet unexpected voice from the doorway. Mycroft turned and even Sherlock’s head popped out from the kitchen, the look of trapped horror identical on the brothers’ faces. 

Violet Holmes stepped into the flat, turning back towards the stairs. 

“Father, look, both of our boys are here, isn’t this lovely.”


	8. Chapter 8

After John’s second text, Greg rushed through traffic to get to Baker Street as quickly as possible. The stories, Mycroft’s confessions, told to him over months and the thought of Mycroft being subject to his parents, alone in a flat full of people, unsupported, burned into Greg’s mind as he hurried through traffic. It stuck in Greg. He told himself he was being a friend, this is what friends do, they support each other, but in a dark part of his consciousness he didn’t want to look at just yet, he knew that running into a potential uncomfortable situation was not a thing just friends do.

Greg forced himself to walk calmly up the stairs of the flat, his footfalls telling anyone who was listening that someone else was about to join the party. As he reached the landing, he could hear who he assumed was the matriarch of the Holmes family speaking. 

“…idiot boy, when will you stop sending your brother out into harm’s way. You know he doesn’t know better, that he’ll always run headfirst into a burning building given the chance…”

He could hear the indignant spluttering of Sherlock as he approached the door and the woman talking over him. 

“…it’s your job to make sure he’s safe. Lord knows you didn’t…”

He knocked on the doorframe as he stepped through, an easy smile on his face. 

“Sorry, hope I’m not interrupting.”

The elderly couple looked up from their seats on the couch and Greg was struck by how average they looked. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the grandparental figures on the couch weren’t it. 

Sherlock and John were sitting in their respective chairs, turned to face the couch and Mycroft was standing tiredly before the couple on the couch, looking as though he was facing a firing squad. At Greg’s knock, Mycroft turned, a look of surprise and relief in his eyes and Greg’s decision was made. 

He stepped into the flat.

“Thought I’d come over and pick you up.” He continued, his eyes on Mycroft. Then he shifted to the couple on the couch, watching him curiously. “Sorry, we have reservations and the person who answered wouldn’t let me cancel.”

Mr. Holmes looked curiously at Greg, but it was the gleam in Mrs. Holmes' eyes that Greg focused on. 

“You must be Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents,” Greg stepped towards them, arm extended. Behind him he could hear an intake of breath by someone, but he was committed, smile easy and crooked, aimed towards the older man now standing up to take the offered hand in a firm handshake. 

“Siger Holmes,” he spoke, “And my wife Violet. And you are?”

His smile remained as he reached for Mrs. Holmes’ hand.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft’s voice behind him, warning, questioning. Greg ignored it just for a moment, his gaze fixed on the inquisitive and bright blue eyes of their mother. 

“Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He kept the easy smile on his lips, the one he always used to de-escalate situations. 

“And you’re going to dinner?” The question hung in the air and Greg jumped on it. He had been banking on a mother’s insatiable need to matchmake, knew his comment as he’d walked in had piqued her curiosity.

“Yeah, sorry. Mycroft and I had dinner plans,” he said, as he stepped back, away from the couch, back towards where Mycroft stood in the middle of the room. “When he didn’t text me to tell me he was on the way, I called the restaurant to change our reservation. The guy on the phone refused so I messaged John to see if he’d left yet.” His smile brightened. He looked at Mycroft who was looking at him with a frozen wariness as if not sure what his next words would be and how he was supposed to respond.

“John said you were still here, and I took a chance. I didn’t know your parents were here.”

“I…” Mycroft paused, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, studying him. Greg prayed this was not going to blow up. He placed a hand on Mycroft’s bicep, thumb running across the warm wool suit jacket. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the muscles tighten, then loosen. Behind him John choked on his tea, coughing and muttering an apology about it going down the wrong way. 

“You’re going to have to call, Myc,” he said, his voice warm, looking up at the man, “if we can’t go. They listen to you.”

“Myc?” Mrs. Holmes' voice was tinged with curiosity and excitement now, any past annoyances at her eldest child forgotten at the potential of a romantic partner. Mycroft inhaled, then turned his head to look at his parents. 

“Mummy, Mycroft is the name you gave me-”

“But you let your…friend call you Myc?” she countered, her eyes lit up in glee. Mycroft’s lips thinned. 

“Yes, well, he is the exception.”

A soft muttering of words behind him only John could hear but the quiet tone was unmistakable to a mother’s hearing. Before Greg could turn to glare at him, Mrs. Holmes was already talking. 

“Sherlock, hush. You’ll not spoil this for me. Finally, one of our children has a romantic partner. Father, isn’t that delightful? Mycroft, why didn’t you tell us?”

Mr. Holmes agreed with a few nonsensical words and Greg realized nobody had told them about Sherlock’s own emotional connections yet. He turned to grin evilly at Sherlock who paled and glared at him.

=================================================================

_ Romantic partner? What in the hell was Lestrade doing? _

He watched mute as Lestrade literally threw himself onto the grenade that was his and Sherlock’s parents, that cocky grin he had paving the way. Mycroft watched as Mummy went from annoyed to curious and finally delighted, her sharp gaze taking in every single thing about Lestrade as the man sweet talked to her and Father and finally walked towards Mycroft, his expression if not his words exuding affection. So much so that he heard Doctor Watson choke on his tea when Lestrade’s hand touched his arm. 

It was warm and Mycroft fought not to blush under that comfortable look. 

He turned, preparing to correct his mother, tell her he and Lestrade were not romantic partners, had never been romantic partners, that this was a friendship,  _ not for want _ but already Lestrade was speaking.

“My fault really. Have an ex-wife and a dangerous job. Didn’t want Mycroft in the middle of either.” He felt Greg shrug, the hand still on his arm. “Point of pride on my part really.”

It was as if he was trapped in a play and he was merely a participant. He watched as Lestrade’s acting-  _ superb acting really, he almost believed it _ \- convinced his mother, saw her smile, her eyes light up.

“It was so nice to meet you Detective Inspector-“

“Greg, please call me Greg.”

His mother beamed. 

“Greg. Please, don’t let me keep you two. Enjoy your dinner. Sherlock can take us out for dinner.”

“What?” 

And there was the indignant little brother finally coming out. Too bad he didn’t have someone willing to throw themselves on the line of parental fire.

“Oh pish, Sherlock,” their father was now saying. “One dinner won’t hurt. John and his daughter can even come along, I’m sure your mother would love to spoil a little one again.”

His hand was warm. Bewildered, he looked down. Greg’s hand was in his and the man was tugging, still smiling at the parents. 

“It was nice to finally meet you both,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft towards the door and he barely had time to grab his briefcase and brolly before he was helpless to do anything but follow.

“Have a nice time,” his mother called out as he was pulled out of the flat, one last flash of Sherlock’s outraged face before he was down the stairs. Had there been a hint of admiration as well?


	9. Chapter 9

They escaped into the open, Mycroft’s hand still in his. Greg hadn’t realized they were still holding hands, it felt so natural. 

“I…” Mycroft began, paused, glanced back at the closed door of 221, then glanced upward without tilting his head back. Again, Greg knew the sign for  _ mother potentially watching from the window _ . “I sent my driver off.” Mycroft finally said. “I thought I would be there longer. I didn’t expect…” another pause.

“Who messaged you?”

“John.” Greg answered readily. “Sherlock told him to send a 999 text. And my car is right over there. If you can be seen in a Detective’s car, I’m more than willing to give you a ride.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked up as he followed Greg to his car. “That will be satisfactory. I’m sure my mother would be elated if you were to give me a ride, as you say.”

Greg choked back laughter as he unlocked his car. He looked back at Mycroft, who was following, his eyes crinkled in mirth. “Did…did you just make an innuendo?”

An eyebrow rose as he slid into the passenger seat of the car, suitcase and umbrella set neatly on his lap. 

“I do thank you for coming to my aid,” Mycroft continued as Greg slid into the driver’s seat. “My parent’s visit was not expected so neither Sherlock nor I had any advance warning of their arrival. A timely exit plus Sherlock being pigeonholed into going to dinner with them is very much appreciated.” 

Greg felt the weight of Mycroft’s gaze on him as he drove down the streets heading towards Pall Mall. 

“You do realize what you have done though, don’t you? By coming to my aid in such a way?”

Greg grinned, his eyes still on the road. “Put myself in the path of your parents?”

“My mother especially. She is like a shark. A hint of a romantic relationship will send her into a frenzy, your confirmation of it, in her eyes, has just cemented your fate.”

Greg’s grin remained. He knew what he had done the moment he stepped into 221B, saw Mycroft receiving the familial version of a dressing down, heard for himself bits of the mindless reproach Mycroft was experiencing at the hands of his mother. He glanced at the man sitting in the car beside him, ramrod straight, hands clasped over the briefcase on his lap. 

“I don’t mind.”

And he didn’t. If it meant faking a relationship for Mycroft’s parents, he would happily do it. It might be the closest thing he ever got to a real relationship with the man outside their friendship. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s head turn sharply towards him as he pulled towards the front entrance of the Diogenes Club. A valet stepped forward, probably to tell him to drive on. 

Greg knew the exact moment the man noticed Mycroft in the car. His placid expression hiccupped for the briefest of moments as the man’s eyes widened. Then he opened Greg’s door, hurrying around to the other side to open Mycroft’s as well. As the man climbed from the car and met Greg at the front entrance, the valet moved into the driver’s side and drove the car around the back. 

Greg followed Mycroft into the club as he had many times before. But there was something different this time, there was a tenseness to Mycroft’s demeanor that he wondered if he had put there.

He waited until they walked into the Stranger’s Room, the door was closed firmly behind them and Mycroft had placed his briefcase on the desk.

“Look, I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position,” he began. “I was trying to help and-“ He fell silent as Mycroft held a finger up.

==================================================================

Nervousness was not a stress response he was used to feeling, not since he’d first been recruited to this company. But Greg’s comment in the car had triggered that nervousness he hadn’t felt in ages.

_ I don’t mind. _

What did that mean? Greg didn’t mind using himself for bait against his mother’s machinations in the foreseeable future? That he didn’t mind being known in his immediate family as ‘Mycroft’s male friend’? That he didn’t mind the inevitable ribbing he was about to receive from Sherlock, possibly John as well? Or did it mean that Greg didn’t mind being seen by Mycroft that way?

All of the possibilities ran through his head, analyzed and tossed to the side then reanalyzed as they walked through the hallways of the Diogenes Club and towards the Stranger’s Room. He put up a hand when Greg began talking. He needed one more minute to correlate his thoughts and he needed a drink.

He poured two bourbons, neat, and handed one to Greg. Then he spoke.

“My position is nothing, not a blip on the radar compared to the position you have just placed yourself in. It’s an easy enough matter to correct. In a few months’ time I will simply contact my parents and inform them that we have parted ways. Obviously, they will believe that it is my doing but that is of no matter. I…Gregory?”

His voice stuttered as Greg put down his drink and stepped into his personal space. They’d stood close before, this should be no different, but there was something…an energy surrounding Greg. It was that aura that spiked Mycroft’s already tenuous nerves. 

“I am going to say this once.” Greg began. “And then we can never speak on it again if you would like. Don’t call your parents. Don’t tell them anything, they don’t deserve your excuses. Let it be. If you’re comfortable with this, then, what does it matter what others think? It’s not going to upset me one jot if Sherlock, in a moment of frustrated brattiness, decided to make a comment in the middle of a crime scene about you and me. While the method and moment were impulsive, I don’t regret doing it. I…I like you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stared…blinked. 

“…”

He licked his lips. “We’re friends.”

That was dull, he could do better than that. Yet Greg smiled at his words. 

“We are friends. Doesn’t mean that, if you’d like, we couldn’t be something else either.”

“Something else?” He managed to force a bit of bravado into his tone. “Such as?”

“What was it your mother said? Romantic friend?”

“Ro…” His mouth went dry. He’d gone so long closing himself off to anyone that he hadn’t even considered the possibility when they began this tentative friendship that it could ever be more than that.

“Permission to kiss you?” Greg seemed to loom in his space now, taking up everything Mycroft could see. “Because I’d really like to kiss you.”

How had he missed that? That Greg was attracted to men as well. Or was it just him? Mycroft nodded a little too quickly.

He could feel his heart pounding, his pulse racing. He was terrified. What if Greg paused at the last minute, said it was a joke? What if they kissed and Greg decided there was nothing there, no spark? What if this ruined their friendship? Greg was the closest thing Mycroft had to a friend, he didn’t want to lose that, didn’t want to ruin it over some misplaced…

Greg’s leaned in and Mycroft’s brain stuttered to a halt. Rough, chapped lips warmed by breath and bourbon were against his and for once, he forgot to breathe. Forgot to think, forgot everything. There was a pressure on his chest, by his shoulder but his eyes were closed  _ when had he closed his eyes? _ And he couldn’t be arsed to investigate.

As soon as it began, it was over. He frowned in disappointment before opening his eyes.

There was nothing malicious in Greg’s expression, no devious undertones, no mischievousness. Just an open, unguarded expression with dark eyes watching him to determine what the next move should be. 

“What did I miss?” Was this how normal people’s minds worked? He felt as if he were sloughing through treacle in his mind. Greg tilted his head in question.

“You are…pardon me, were married. For years.”

“Ah.” Greg grinned. “So there’s this thing where a person can be attracted to both men and women. It’s becoming rather common, so I hear.”

“Don’t be pedantic.” The retort slipped from him before he could stop it and Mycroft braced himself for a spiteful comeback. Instead, Greg laughed. 

“As if you’re never pedantic.” Was he teasing? Mycroft wasn’t sure, was too cautious to find out. The laughter faded and Greg let go of him, his hand leaving Mycroft’s shoulder and took a step back.

“If I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry. I thought…”

The loss was keenly felt and Mycroft immediately stepped forward, back into that small space between them. Greg fell silent and he watched, waited. The next move was Mycroft’s and he knew it. He could walk past, back to his chair, and they would pretend this never happened, go back to what they were. He could have the man escorted from the premises, thereby ruining a long-held friendship, or…

Mycroft was not an impulsive person, every move was deliberate, it was how he survived. But this…he leaned in, meeting Greg’s mouth once again, tentative, hesitant.

“You did not overstep.” It was a quick kiss, barely closed lips pressing together but it was enough to signify that this was something wanted, agreed upon. 

Greg grinned crookedly. 

“Okay, then. Good.”

=======================================================================

The situation was growing dire. Holmes was slowly coming back to power. After months of letting Smallwood take care of things, she was beginning to transfer the balance of power back to him, seemingly glad to be rid of it. 

“Do you think that’s wise?” he asked her one day, as he poured her tea and slid it across the table to her. “Well, it seems he’s been...compromised. Can you really trust him to have the best interest of the Crown?”

The doddering old woman took her tea and smiled up at him in that condescending way that made him want to smack her. Instead he kept his bland expression. 

“I understand you’re still new here Stuart, just over a year, but there is nobody in this country who had the Crown and her people’s best interests at heart than Mycroft Holmes. If he tells me he’s ready to take over his duties, then I will hand them over to him with a glad heart.”

He wanted to argue, to tell her that Holmes didn’t do anything except what would benefit him in the end. That’s why his brother was still allowed to run around London and act the fool, thereby putting them all in the spotlight. That’s why the doddering DI from Scotland Yard kept making appearances here, to inform him of everything Holmes the younger was doing. How could London and the Crown’s best interests be served by someone who couldn’t even control his own best interests? 

Instead, he nodded. 

“Very good, Mum.”

“Oh Stuart, do stop that. I told you Lady Smallwood was fine.”

He gave a tight smile and returned to his own office, fuming. 

Desperate measures would need to be taken. Soon. 

He’d found the means, now he just needed the opportunity.


	10. Chapter 10

“You’re looking well this morning, Sir.” 

Mycroft briefly glanced up from his laptop, the sound of his assistant’s heels clicking against the hardwood floor. His lips quirked upward at her veiled query.

“Good morning, Anthea. What does our schedule look like for today?”

A tray with a full pot of tea and a cup as well as a scone with a bit of jam on the side was placed in its usual spot on his desk, far enough to not hinder Mycroft’s work, but close enough for him to easily reach.

Anthea handed him several files before beginning to pour his tea. 

“You have a meeting with the Prime Minister at two. Sir Rutherford requested a meeting for lunch at Scott’s. There are also a few internal issues.”

The way she spoke those words had him looking up at her.

“Internal issues?”

His voice was level, bland, yet from years of working closely with his PA, she could hear the underlying question.

“Lady Smallwood would like to set a meeting with you at your earliest convenience.” She handed him his cup, tea made perfectly.

“Official or no?” He nodded his thanks, taking a delicate sip.

“I’ll be joining you, yes.”

This was not a normal answer she would give. The answer would have been either yes the meeting was official or no it was casual. But there was nothing casual about her answer.

Mycroft now turned the full of his attention to the honey blonde woman, laser sharp and dangerous.

“Tell me.” It was an order, the visage of Mycroft Holmes she’d known throughout her entire career, clear and bright. 

“Norbury.”

The single word shot through Mycroft, a spear of understanding of his assistant’s concern. The hint of uneasiness he’d gotten when he returned fully to his duties. Not that Elizabeth had seemed uncertain in her transfer of power back to him. Indeed, she’d been quite giddy to hand him back the duties that she had taken over in his…convalescence, handing them over even before he’d finished his query.

_ I am not like you Mycroft. Oh, I can order men and women to their deaths quite easily. As you know, I have no qualms differentiating the needs of the Crown from the people assigned to do their duty. But your section involves predictions and analytics that I do not have the mental gymnastics to even begin to sort through. I plodded along as well as I could, with assistance, but please, I am happy to return the state of the Crown to you. _

With assistance. That was the key. 

Mycroft blinked up at Anthea, still standing placidly before him, as if waiting for him to pull the strings together. And he had. 

“How long?”

“Over a year.”

“That long?”

How had he missed the pieces being placed on the board for that long?

“You did have a tempestuous year, Sir.”

Which meant this game had been playing from the beginning and Mycroft had missed it. How much longer would he have continued to miss it had it not been for Lestrade busting into his office that fateful afternoon to drag him, exhausted and furious, from his office?

Grey eyes met hazel and his lips tightened. In return, the corner of her mouth lifted a shadow of a fraction.

Ever loyal and dedicated. And, until Lestrade, the closest thing to a friend Mycroft had. He knew he held her utmost trust and that trust was reciprocated. He never worried of Anthea participating in lunchroom gossip the other assistants did. Speaking of…

“You have not been…compromised, have you?”

The look she gave him screamed  _ Please. As if someone that obvious could sidle past me. _

Satisfied, he nodded once and turned back to his laptop. “Very well, please inform Lady Smallwood of my schedule and which time would suit.”

“Very good, Sir.” Phone out, she turned on her heels, fingers already flying over the keys. Pausing but not turning, she spoke once more. 

“Don’t forget your five o’clock, Sir.”

He did smile this time, brief and small but it was a smile. “Cheeky,” he murmured. Light laughter was her response as she left his office. 

Mycroft finished a bit more, before sitting back and thinking about the situation before him. The Game was in Play, begun before he realized. Had this been a worthy opponent, he would be worried, focused on finding the kink in the armor that could topple the giant. But this was a mere pawn, a novice attempting to outmaneuver a master. Leaning forward to his laptop, he typed in a few words and his laptop began running, pulling up the files of Lady Smallwood’s newest assistant. 

Settling in, Mycroft took another drink from his tea cup and then went to work.

================================================================

“You’re looking cheery today?”

“Do I need a reason to be in a good mood?”

Sally Donovan lengthened her stride so she matched Greg’s walking beside him. “Don’t know, do you? Last time I saw a bloke with that look on his face he’d just pulled. Just sayin’.” She finished at the incredulous look he shot her.

“I’m not, but even if I were, I wouldn’t be telling you, Donovan,” Greg huffed as they walked through the department, past desks his team occupied. 

“That’s hardly fair,” she laughed, not put off by his look. “You know all about mine.”

“One time. And that was because Holmes announced it to the entire area.” 

Sally wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I told you about David.”

Greg paused in front of his office door and looked at his second in command. “Damn, I forgot about David. What happened to him?”

“He went back to his wife.”

Greg choked out a sharp laugh as he opened his door. “Really Sal, you need to get better at picking blokes.”

“Maybe I’ll buy Holmes some chips and see if he can pick out a new one.” It was an easy tease, and Greg gave another soft laugh. His mobile buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. 

“Good luck.” 

**[Diogenes 5pm. Unless you prefer something more intimate? MH]**

Closing the door behind him after he stepped into his office, Greg smiled at the message and typed out a response.

**[Where did you have in mind? G]**

**[Perhaps my place? MH]**

The smile widened. For Mycroft to suggest something as personal as his own place…it was a huge step. 

**[If you’re comfortable with that, I’d like that. G]**

**[Excellent. There will be a car at the Met at 5pm. MH]**

Tucking his mobile back into his pocket, Greg briefly wondered if he should stop by his flat to pick up an overnight bag.


	11. Chapter 11

Five o’clock came and, like clockwork, the car pulled up smoothly in front of the Met. Greg, who’d just stepped out of the building, headed towards the black car, bending down as the door to the back opened. 

“Get in, Detective Inspector.”

Grinning, Greg slid into the car, favoring Mycroft with a bright smile. He glanced towards the driver who was looking forward as he shut the door. 

“How was work?”

“Enlightening.” Mycroft’s gaze was settled on a tablet, eyes narrowed on the text on the device. Knowing that Mycroft was still in work mode, Greg pulled out his phone and began answering the last few work emails before switching to a game as the car took them through the streets of London and towards Belgravia.

The tablet was stored away, causing Greg to glance up from his phone, then look out the window. The white homes gleamed as they passed, finally coming to a gated drive. The gate opened and the car drove past and up to a white home that matched the rest of the houses on the street. Greg whistled. 

“Nice.”

“After you, Detective Inspector.” 

Greg climbed from the car and waited a little behind as Mycroft unlocked the front door and allowed them both in. The inside was shining wood and brass, brown, burgundy and gold. He was led into the library.

“Please. Make yourself comfortable.” Mycroft headed towards the drinks cabinet. Greg followed. 

“Are you alone in this place?”

“Of course. I don’t have any staff to speak of. A housekeeper that comes every Tuesday but that’s it.”

“So we’re alone?”

“We are,” Mycroft confirmed. “Why are you wanting to…oh.”

Grey eyes grew wide as Greg pulled the bottle from Mycroft’s hand and set it aside. Cupping Mycroft’s chin, Greg tilted his head and caught his lips in a kiss. Caught unawares, unsure what to do before instinct finally took hold. Lips parting, Mycroft leaned into the kiss, hand pressed against a broad shoulder. 

“Missed you.” The words were breathed out between kisses, the small separation of the lips before the dive back in. Mycroft inhaled through his nose, and Greg was mindless of anything except warm hands resting against his shoulders, and his own palms running over warmed silk and fine cotton. 

He couldn’t speak until the lips separated fully, those grey eyes looking warmly at him. 

“I missed you as well,” Mycroft’s voice was hoarse and Greg grinned.

“Need a drink?”

“God, yes please.” 

That grin turned into laughter, Greg’s hand resting around Mycroft’s waist as he picked up the bottle that rested on the side table. 

“I’ll pour. You get comfortable.”

Two glasses were filled with two fingers and Greg brought them to Mycroft still looking a little dazed from his seat on the couch. 

“Thank you.” 

Sitting beside him, Greg let their legs touch, wanting to be close but also giving Mycroft the option to move. He didn’t, just took a sip and leaned back against the couch with a weary sigh. 

“Bad day?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Greg watched as Mycroft took another drink, his head lolling to look at him. “There might be a...concern.”

“Concern?” Greg’s brow furrowed. “What kind of concern. Anything to be worried about?”

“There isn’t enough information to give a definitive answer to that as yet.” He was silent, looking. Greg cocked his head in wordless question. 

“Do you have any concerns should our…” Mycroft paused, looking unsure as to the word he needed. 

“Relationship?” Greg supplied. Blinking, Mycroft nodded. 

“Relationship. If it were to become public.”

“I told you the day I met your parents and we began this, it doesn’t matter one jot what anyone thinks. If it comes out, my sexual orientation isn’t going to matter in regards to my job. I’m a bloody good Detective. That has nothing to do with who I shag in my off time.” Greg put his glass on the table, then pulled Mycroft’s from his fingers. “If anything, my DS might be excited, thinking it’ll help the department if I have an ‘in’ in the British Government. Any prejudiced wankers that have an issue with it can easily be transferred to another department if they want. But I know my team. They’re a good lot.”

“You could be in more danger simply because of your position to me.”

“I’m already in danger on the daily, it’s part of the job. What happened? Does this have to do with the _ concern _ ?” 

“I can’t say anything else, you understand, but-”

“Hey.” Reaching out, Greg placed a finger against Mycroft’s lips. “Does it bother you, or affect you in any way if it were to come out that you were having a romantic relationship with a member of Scotland Yard?”

Mycroft shook his head, removing Greg’s finger from his lips. “It does not. As you said, my romantic proclivities have no bearing on my professional status. It only becomes shameful if I feel shame in regard to it, and I assure you, I do not.”

“That’s nice to know. Do we need to go, I don’t know, more public?”

Mycroft’s fingers were wrapped around his hand, eyes unfocused, looking inward.

“No,” he finally said. “No. We shouldn’t change anything about this, about us. If we are exposed, then so be it. We have nothing to hide.” 

Greg found himself pinned by that sharp, searching gaze and detected a shadow of doubt within those grey eyes. 

“I’ve...it’s been a long time since I’ve...allowed myself to even think about an intimate partnership.”

Greg’s heart melted, Mycroft trusted him, trusted them. And he’d be damned if he did anything to not be worthy of that trust. 

===================================================================

He needed to tell him, Mycroft realized, if this was to be a real relationship, one in which mutual trust is given, he would need to tell Gregory about his…choices. Greg had shifted on the couch so his knee was pressed against Mycroft’s thigh as they talked, and the pressure and warmth of it did things to Mycroft’s stomach. He swallowed hard, wishing there was more scotch to help him with this.

“So we keep going, as we have done.” Greg clarified and Mycroft’s focus sharpened, taking in the soft lines on Gregory’s face as he moved closer. They were going to kiss and that would very likely lead to other things, culminating in them moving to Mycroft’s bedroom, engaging in coitus. 

_ Oh… _

“Wait.” His hand pressed against Greg’s firm chest, parted lips inches from his, so close he could just lean forward and press against them. Mycroft was transfixed by those lips, forcefully pulling his gaze from their call and turning them upward to startled and wary eyes watching him. He could read the hurt in those eyes, almost hear Greg’s thoughts

_ Was I wrong? Did I push too fast? _

“Before we go any further, I need to tell you something. About me. About choices I made.”

The warmth against his hand was gone as Greg sat back, his gaze still locked on Mycroft’s. “Are you talking about your Uncle, because you already told me about that and I don’t hold you responsible for any of it.”

Mycroft swallowed hard again, an unfamiliar lump in his chest. He’d felt fear before, the rush of adrenaline, the fight or flight response kicking in. It was a common occurrence when he did field work, and was still a common occurrence while dealing with his brother and more recently, his sister. He’d learned long ago how to tamp it down, step over it, work through it. A form of fighting that involved the mind instead of sheer brute strength. This wasn’t that sort of fear. This was different, had a separate feel to it, a texture he was not used to. His heart thumped hard against his chest and suddenly his palms were damp, his hands trembling. Forcing himself to push through, to analyze this later, Mycroft spoke.

“I told you of how my Uncle Rudy raised me, taught me to be the man I am today, on the path I walk today. But it is not all his doing. After he passed, I could have easily left, moved to a less labor intense position in the Government.” A deep breath and he dove in.

“My Uncle Rudy was furious when I was chosen for this position and that he was not. All his life he had angled for a higher leadership position, a glass office with a large desk where he could puppet the Prime Minister or the House of Lords. Instead, they chose me. Because of my treason, as he saw it, Rudy let spill little things about me. Nothing about Eurus, that was still forbidden, but about my…proclivities, my ethics, Sherlock. My proclivities they cared not a whit about--after all, Rudy was notorious for his dressing in women’s clothing. It wasn’t as well kept a secret as he liked to think. Another older member had a…interest in teen boys. I, thankfully, was too old for him when I started. As for my ethics, well, they had seen my work, they were not worried about my ethics. The only thing that gave them pause was Sherlock.”

He chanced a look. Greg’s expression was calm. He was listening to Mycroft silently, leaning against the couch. Their legs were still pressed together which gave Mycroft hope, Greg wasn’t disgusted yet.

“The time of my rise signaled the beginning of Sherlock’s fall. I hadn’t paid enough attention to my younger brother, missed the signs that his self-made mental lock was failing him. He had started using drugs, the simple ones at first, ones found around any hallway in Uni. It wasn’t long before he graduated to harder drugs; cocaine, morphine, heroin, MDMA. I found him in his first drug house at the age of seventeen. My parents had called me worried because Sherlock wasn’t at school, the schoolmaster had contacted them. Despite my uncle’s disapproval, I left to find him. Through tracking his friends, I finally found the doss house. He was strung out and delirious and to this day, I’m not sure what happened to him while in there.”

Mycroft paused, licking his lips nervously, the memory of his little brother, passed out on a filthy mattress, clothing rumpled and half undone, hair greasy, his pallor paler than death. The image had terrified Mycroft, he didn’t want to be the only Holmes sibling; Eurus was lost to them, dear God, not his own brother as well…

“I took him back to my flat, nursing him back to health while he babbled nonsensically about anything and everything. That’s when he first mentioned Redbeard. I didn’t know what to do, knew that the mental block he’d placed to forget everything was crumbling. In a moment of weakness, I called Rudy. He suggested the new blocks, a better lie. So, while Sherlock lay in bed, delirious, I wove a tale of Redbeard, the family dog, giving his mind something to hold on to, something to use as a foundation to rebuild that crumbling wall. Because I knew that if it fell, Sherlock would fall completely as well, and I could not lose my little brother. I could accept his anger, his hatred, his ridicule, but I could not and still cannot accept that he could be ripped from me. As Sherlock healed, the wall rebuilt itself, and with it, Sherlock’s anger at being pulled from the doss house, his distrust of me for being the one to rescue him. But it was worth it, all of it was worth it.” 

His hands picked and tugged at the couch cushions, but he absently allowed the nervous gesture, confident that Greg would allow him some small form of weakness, even if he did leave disgusted after this. 

“I had to prove to my superiors that Sherlock would not be a trigger for me. That I could do my job even with a drug addled younger brother and I sold it. Convinced them utterly that Sherlock was necessary only in the scope that his mind and his nervous energy could help the Crown, provided he was allowed his dalliances. And he has. Even though from the start, Sherlock has always known that I held the strings to his ventures, he played his part perfectly without even knowing that I wanted him to. Of course, once Sherlock finally finished school our parents were happy to wash their hands of him, happy to allow me the burden of taking care of him. But I was happy to do it if it kept him alive. I did not realize until recently that in doing all of this, I had almost lost my brother in the way it mattered most. After Uncle Rudy passed, I was fully ensconced in my position and continued the work at Sherrinford, thinking it the best and safest way to care for my sister. ” Mycroft’s smile was bitter as he carefully watched Greg.

“This is all my doing. Eurus’ incarceration, using her ability, allowing her the gift of Moriarty thereby almost killing Sherlock. Sherlock’s own drug addiction and subsequent downfall. His broken and addled mind. My use of the phrase Redbeard as a trigger word, to estimate where Sherlock’s mental state was at all times. All my design.”

Greg hadn’t moved. His eyes were wide and unnaturally fixed on him and for the first time in his life, Mycroft wished he had the ability of telepathy in order to see what Greg was thinking. 

“So you see, how could anyone,” Mycroft finished with a sad smile. “ever be attracted to such a creature?”


	12. Chapter 12

Surely he was joking. 

This is not how Greg expected the night to end. Thought they’d move from whiskey flavored kisses to something else, hoped for a snogging session on Mycroft’s plush couch. Any thoughts of moving forward were frozen with a warm yet firm hand on his chest and Mycroft Holmes looking for the world like a man haunted.

So he sat, ardor cooling as Mycroft told his insisted story, the story that was supposed to make him hate the man, supposed to make him rise from the couch, gather his coat and leave this place, to only see Mycroft on professional outings that resulted in “no, Mr. Holmes”, “yes, Mr. Holmes”, or “bugger off, Mr. Holmes.”

As Mycroft unraveled his yarn, Greg found himself angry. Not at Mycroft, but at Rudy, that manipulative prick who had, once again, broken Mycroft so entirely that Mycroft had justified the entrapment of his sister, the rearranging of his brother’s memories as ways of protecting them. Had justified Sherlock’s life in such a way that he had rewritten his own memories to believe that Sherlock was only around because he was a benefit to the Crown, not because an older brother loved him so much that he would and did do everything he could in order to save his life. As Mycroft talked, Greg saw a man who had always sacrificed his own happiness for the comfort of his brother, even when his brother’s chosen comfort sometimes took the form of drugs. As Sherlock grew up and was slowly beginning to understand and discover emotions, sentiment, affection, Mycroft, ever stalwart, had paused, allowing his brother to once again crawl up from the depths by using him as a step.

Mycroft fell silent, just as broken as his siblings, feeling unworthy to experience love or affection because he felt he never deserved that sentiment. Braced for a windfall of anger that he didn’t know would never come. 

Greg inhaled, paused in order to collect his thoughts before he spoke. 

“That,” he began, “Is utter bollocks.”

Mycroft flinched as if the words physically slapped at him. 

“No,” Greg hurried to explain, moving closer to the man, their legs pressed tighter together. “I’m going to say some things that I should’ve said earlier but didn’t because family is messed up and sticky, but they’re still family. What your uncle did to you is utter bollocks.”

Mycroft’s eyes opened wide, surprised. His lips parted and Greg immediately pressed a finger to them. 

“Ah, you got a chance to talk, it’s my turn. You insist that what happened to Sherlock and your sister is your fault but, Mycroft, it’s not. Your parents got swindled by your uncle at the height of their grief. He took advantage of their confusion and shock to not only move your sister to a facility where she could be an experiment, but also took you, knowing that your parents wouldn’t even understand. He took a scared and equally broken boy and created him in his own image and got angry when it didn’t work. He wanted you to be like your sister, a cold calculating machine for the British Government to use. To analyze facts and figures, to pull the thread and deduce what would happen. To look at stock numbers and know which country was going to fall. He wanted to use you, just like he used your sister, just like he taught you to use your sister. What he didn’t count on was your bond with Sherlock.”

“I hardly…” Mycroft began behind Greg’s finger. Greg pressed harder and he fell silent once more.

“Guilt, love, whatever you want to call it, you and Sherlock have a bond. Sure, you play the overbearing, eternally exasperated older brother but in reality, as you’ve said yourself, you would not allow anything to happen to your brother. And as I’ve said before, fists and nails. That’s what you two are. Everything you’ve done, you’ve done out of love for Sherlock, a desire to protect your sister. Granted a lot of your methods are…dodgy at best, but in your limited scope, you used the tools that were available in order to assist you. Even if those tools were taught manipulation tactics.”

Mycroft sat still, eyes wide and red rimmed. Greg’s heart went out to him and he slowly pulled his finger away, letting his hand fall on Mycroft’s thigh. 

“What I see is a man who values family. You’re not a monster, Mycroft. You’re a brother who loves his family and desperately tried to keep everyone safe, to the detriment of your own self.” 

One lone tear slid down Mycroft’s cheek, pausing before letting go and falling onto the silk of his waistcoat, darkening the color. 

Greg took a breath, feeling his chest expand as he reached out, resting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. And still Mycroft didn’t move, just stared. Suddenly he blinked, inhaled sharply, focused on Greg. 

“You can’t…”

“Why not?” Greg countered swiftly. He squeezed the stiff shoulder and moved back in, towards Mycroft. “I don’t think you’re a monster Mycroft. You aren’t. And I say this as your friend as well, Sherlock is fine. He’s in a place where he’s growing. He has people he loves and who love him, people who can help you take care of him. It isn’t your burden alone any longer. You can let go.”

Another tear slid down Mycroft’s cheek and this time, Greg cupped his face, swiped the tear away. 

“Myc, for the first time in your life, allow yourself to just...be.”

A shudder ran through the man’s body and Greg pulled him in, his other arm wrapping around, holding him in. The woodsy scent of his aftershave tickled his nose but he held fast, feeling Mycroft’s chest rise and fall against his, heard his shaky breath against his neck. Hesitantly, Mycroft shifted, arms wrapped around his waist and then Mycroft was hugging him, holding him tight, his face buried in Greg’s neck.

“I don’t know how.” 

Greg pulled him away, cupping his face and kissed him, warm, soft as if to show him words that didn’t really need to be said. 

_ Let me help you. _


	13. Chapter 13

Three a.m.  _ The Witching Hour. _ Westgrave felt a little spiritual as he crept through the empty building using the passcode and ID of Captain Croker. Croker, pompous and bloated and sitting back on his time in the military and his veteran status, hadn’t had an assistant for over three years, preferring to commandeer his co-conspirators’ assistants for things he might need. This time Westgrave played right into his path. It seemed like luck had been on his side that night when he happened to be near the offices when Croker received the call. 

He’d spotted Westgrave as he hung up, just as Westgrave had wanted him to. 

“Damned business, I need to leave for a few days.” the older man blustered. Westgrave stood inside his office, nodding politely as the man spoke. 

“Smallwood said you’re a reliable sort. Think you can take a few messages for me?”

“Of course, Should I inform Lady Smallwood of your departure.”

“Bah,” Cocker waved off the suggestion. “I’ll only be out of the office for a day or two, no reason to rile up Lady Smallwood with it. Just transfer my line over to yours and take a few messages. I’ll give you my ID in case you need to log in to my calendar.”

He couldn’t believe his luck. Croker would be gone for a day, no one would know and the doddering old fool would hand over his identification. The fates had aligned it perfectly.

Slipping into the outer office, Westgraved walked towards the glass doorway that held a key card. Swiping it, he entered in the passcode as well and waited. The light turned green and the doors easily pushed open. 

Like a child at Christmas, Stuart Westgrave stepped through the open thick glass doors and into the inner sanctum of the Circle. 

There was intent in his method, he’d run over this plan a hundred times in his mind. There was a small window of opportunity here, go to the furthest console, the one in the shadows and didn’t have a CCTV camera angled towards it, log in using Croker’s passcode and ID, search for Sherrinford, get out. Everyone would assume Croker was the one responsible. 

Sitting down in the chair, he booted up the computer, logging in using Croker’s ID and passcode. Immediately the screen went a deep blue, files in neat rows titled by random words;  **Cork, Porlock, Antarctica, Love.**

Westgrave looked at these files, not sure which one he needed. The names on them gave no indication as to which file he would need to search through and he didn’t have the time to look through each and every file until he found the right one. He thought there’d just be a separate file for Sherrinford. This was supposed to be a secure access line, why add the extra security? 

A file in the top caught his attention: CCTV. Curious, Westgrave clicked the file. Immediately the large screen filled with windows, each one from a CCTV camera around town and a few situated by the members’ houses. He recognized Lady Smallwood’s home on one of the cameras. He had been forced to escort her home one evening to collect a few items to return to the office the next morning. She would be in late and they needed to get to Sir Edwin. Another camera showed a dark home. Croker’s house. Which meant the other two belonged to Holmes and Sir Edwin. 

He really didn’t have time but curiosity is a dangerous drug. Choosing one at random, Westgrave sat skimming the footage for anything that might be useful. Perhaps Sir Edwin hired escorts, or could be found in compromising positions with someone. Something that could be used as blackmail.

On the screen a car appeared at the front entrance and Westgrave slowed down the footage. The back door opened and the silver haired DI stepped out. The one who was assigned to watch Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade. Which meant this was Holmes’ home.

Mycroft Holmes exited the car as well and Lestrade followed, pausing until the front door opened and both men stepped into the house. Curious as to why the DI would be riding with Holmes and invited into the man’s house, Westgrave scanned through the footage to see how long the DI had stayed, expecting maybe an hour at most for some sort of debriefing. 

Two hours passed, three, four. The inside of the house went dark and still nobody exited the house. Westgrave grinned slowly. It seemed Holmes had a weakness after all. He could get access to the CCTV cameras through legitimate channels via Lady Smallwood’s office. It would be a small thing, now that he knew what he was looking for, to find something he could use against Holmes. Something that would work towards getting him out of the way. 

Closing the file, Westgrave chose a file at random, clicking on Antarctica. Inside the file were lists of other files, more than he had ever seen. Some of the names he’d heard of, but one caught his attention. Sherrinford.

Time running out, he clicked on the file. The screen turned red and a white box appeared asking for a verification code. Entering Croker’s passcode, he frowned when access was denied asking again for a verification code. Again, Westgrave entered the passcode and again access was denied. 

He was furious. All this way only to be blocked by an extra wall of security. But it verified that whatever Sherrinford was, it was important. Important enough to get his hands on. 

==================================================================

The first notification woke her from a nice dream involving fast cars and men in tuxes. Yawning, the reach for her mobile was automatic. Anthea’s hours when she was hired might have stated bankers’ hours, but she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been on call. A quick glance told her Croker was in the office at quarter past three. It would have been dismissed from her mind had the kindly older man not stopped by Holmes’ office the day before to let her know that he had an emergency to hand off his code just in case. He had kindly waved off her offer of assistance stating that he’d given access to Westgrave and he would be rescheduling his appointments.

Sitting up in bed, Anthea called up the surveillance that had been triggered when the card reader had been activated. That alone was not enough to set off the new protocol, but that the reader was combined with the access code instead of the ocular key was what set off the alarm. 

The footage appeared on her mobile and she peered through tired eyes that sharpened the moment she realized Captain Croker was not the one using his ID and passcode at past three in the morning to access the Inner room. 

**Do You Want to Delete File?**

Fully awake now, Anthea turned on her bedside light, entering in the access code to save the file and transfer it to her files. Another alarm went off, this time the access being used to unlock one of the screens in the office. 

Switching over to that camera, Anthea watched as Westgrave looked around. She was up and moving, fingers flying over her phone telling the computer to log all keystrokes and mouse clicks for that system and to send them to Holmes’ computer. She wasn’t getting any more sleep today, might as well dress and prepare for the day. 

As she finished dressing, her mobile chimed once more. Glancing at it, her heart skipped as she saw the name of the file he’d been trying to get access too.

Sherrinford. 

Westgrave was trying to get into the Sherrinford files.

Eyes narrowing, Anthea entered in the order to record all comings and goings of that area for the next hour and then called a car. She would need to get into the office and go over everything before Holmes arrived. She knew Westgrave might be a problem, had already heard the whispered rumors circulating about her relationship with Holmes. Rumors she knew he had planted. But she never thought he would be so brazen to try something like this. Especially under Lady Smallwood’s office.

Holmes would need to know. But when he came in. She needed time to correlate the information and he deserved his rest. 


	14. Chapter 14

“I should go,” Greg kept saying. “Just because I have an off day tomorrow doesn’t mean you do, and your job is bigger than mine.”

In response, Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg’s waist each time, holding the man captive until he would relent, arm going back around him, and silence would fall once again. They’d spent the remainder of the evening laying together on the couch after the discussion, alternating between quiet words and kisses, a brief bold touch occasionally. Nothing larger happened, clothing had remained on if not completely intact and the height of any intimacy occurred with Mycroft half sprawled atop Greg, legs tangled together, the matched rise and fall of chests. They slept some, snatches of naps in between talking, the comfort of a warm body pressed against another, the wanted comforting touch of hands pressed against a waist. 

Greg hadn’t pushed and Mycroft was content. Still, for as sentimental and plebeian as it had seemed, Mycroft couldn’t have been happier. They hadn’t moved until the dark blue black of night began to fade and the sound of waking birds in the trees outside. Only then did Mycroft reluctantly relinquish his prize. 

“Coffee?”

Greg, wrinkled, unshaven, silver hair standing up even after he tried to pat it down, grinned at the offer. 

“Nah, no need to play host when you’re trying to get ready for work.”

“It is not playing host; my machine is already set to brew.”

“Tempting, but I’ll take a raincheck until the next time I stay till morning.”

A wicked grin followed by warm hands on his arm and even warmer lips against his and Greg was gone, the car Mycroft had convinced him to take driving him back to his flat. 

Mycroft couldn’t remember a time when he felt…happy.

Clean, refreshed, and besuited, the sky was just beginning to show the reds and oranges of the morning light when Mycroft slid into the back of his car. The door barely shut before his mobile rang. His mood went from excited to resigned when he read the name on the screen and he wondered, not for the first time, if he and his siblings’ powers of deduction came from their mother’s side. 

“If you would use your power of deduction toward more important things rather than choosing the optimal time in which to phone your offspring, I believe we could stop world hunger.” He said by way of greeting. 

“Pish, it’s much more fun knowing I can catch you all out.” The cheery reply of his mother came over the other line. “Why are you awake before sun up?”

“Why are you calling me before sun up?” he countered. 

“Is your friend at the house?” she parried, completely ignoring his counter. Mycroft sighed.

“Mummy. Why have you called? Surely it wasn’t to discuss my romantic affiliations.”

“On the contrary, that is exactly why I called.” She replied. “It’s been a few days and honestly, I’ve been expecting the call from you to tell me that you and your DI have split paths, but it was entirely your doing. This hasn’t happened but I decided to take the initiative and ask myself. Are you and your DI a thing, as the kids call it?”

Her level of deductive reasoning, when she chose to use it, was a thing of wonders. Mycroft saw it so seldom that when she did use it, it unnerved him. The illusion of a busybody mother who headed the village’s gardening club and liked to travel to places for line dancing with her husband was so ensconced in not only his, but his sibling’s memory, that he and Sherlock often forgot that their mother had written books on physics and high-level calculus. But in the end, she was still his mum and when she uncovered a mystery, like her youngest son, she would hold on to it until she saw it solved.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade and I are…a thing.” He finally confirmed, ignoring her soft triumphant squeal.

“Will you be a thing come this Christmas?”

“That’s months away.”

“I’m planning ahead. This is exciting for me, Myc. I’ve despaired over never having grandchildren-“

“I don’t think you’re going to get grandchildren should Lestrade and I remain romantic partners.” Mycroft answered dryly. 

“There’s always adoption,” she countered so quickly, it caught him off guard, letting her go in for the final blow. “You always find it so odd that your father and I want the best for you.”

_ You hardly cared before.  _ The words, so blinding and honest, almost slipped from his mouth. He bit his tongue to keep them back, to keep from upsetting his mother. Instead he took a breath, counted to ten and spoke again. 

“I don’t know what the future holds for us, Mummy,” Honesty was the best course of action for this conversation. Just not too much honesty. “But I would very much like to be a thing come Christmas. And I believe Lestrade feels the same.”

“It would probably help if you called him by his Christian name.”

Mycroft couldn’t stop a slight smile. “I do. When we’re alone.” And then, because he would not be the only one suffering this outrage and because older brothers are notorious for throwing their younger siblings under the metaphorical bus when it came to distracting parents away from them “I hardly see why I’m the only one you’re having this conversation with. Why aren’t you harassing Sherlock?”

“Your brother isn’t the one in a romantic relationship.”

Mycroft let the silence speak for him. His mother was intelligent. A gasp confirmed she’d come to the conclusion of what he wasn’t telling her.

“Oh that naughty boy, not telling me anything.”

“Remember, Sherlock doesn’t keep the same hours I do.” He didn’t even bother to keep the mirth from his voice.

“I can be tenacious. And wipe that smirk from your face, Mycroft Holmes. I still expect to meet your Greg properly. Your father and I will be out sometime next week, and you will both meet us for dinner.”

He wasn’t getting out of this. Best to warn Lestrade and let him know what was coming. “Yes, Mummy.”

“We’ll speak later,” 

And she was gone, probably off to make a cup of tea before beginning her campaign of harassment of Sherlock until his brother answered. Sherlock was stubborn but he’d inherited it from their mother. When provoked, she would out stubborn them all. 

Despite his mother’s admonishment, Mycroft’s smirk remained on his lips even as the car pulled smoothly up to the entrance of Vauxhall.

Between his fledgling relationship with Lestrade and his brother’s own inevitable relationship discovery, which he fully anticipated ignoring those irate texts when they came, Mycroft’s demeanor was upbeat. Even more so when people walking past, noticed his smile and decided to avoid him entirely. 

This was going to be a good day.

=================================================================

Anthea stood beside her desk, partially barring the entryway to his office as he entered. His pace slowed as he quickly looked her over. 

“Good morning Sir.”

“You’ve been up since before me. What happened?”

She exchanged his overcoat and umbrella for the folder in her hand, then followed him down the hallway to his office. Neither spoke, knowing that once the safety of his office was reached, they could both do so freely. 

Anthea stepped into the office, hanging his coat properly, then resting the umbrella in the hidden closet as the door closed behind them. Mycroft took his seat, opening the folder handed to him even as he unlocked the laptop. The screen shots screamed out at him and he blinked, then frowned. 

“What is this?” The question was semi rhetorical, he could see the images of a computer screen, the images of a figure entering the inner office of the Circle, the time stamps. But it didn’t make sense. This wasn’t Anthea, he trusted her implicitly. If she wanted to attempt blackmail, she had far more information on him than blurry screenshots.

“Preparation. The file is encrypted and in your inbox. I’ve been working on this since four this morning.”

She left him to click on the file in his inbox. Multiple files opened, each one more damning than the next. The time stamp of the outer glass door showed a young man, entering in the passcode for Croker. Then the image of a screen in the inner room, open and in use, the file title Sherrinford legible. The secondary access screen of that file. Several other images. Mycroft expanded the images until the person in the picture was clear. A young man around late twenties, early thirties, well dressed, obviously from wealth, educated, horrible at espionage. Clues stacked and clicked and fitted themselves until an answer appeared. 

“Stuart Westgrave. Attaché to Lady Smallwood.”

Anthea stepped back in with a tray, a teapot and a croissant on it. She said nothing until the tray was placed on the desk, the tea was poured and the cup handed to Mycroft. 

“Sit.”

Moving one of the chairs, she took a seat and began to pour herself a cup as well. 

“Explain.”

“Captain Croker is out until tomorrow morning. He left early yesterday, mentioned a family emergency. You were to have lunch with him this afternoon and he stopped by on his way out to ask me to cancel and to hand over his emergency code. I offered to rearrange the rest of his calendar and that’s when he informed me that he’d given his ID and passcode to Mr. Westgrave to do just that. Had it not been for that meeting, when the alert went off this morning, I would not have thought another thing about it.”

Cup still in hand, Mycroft’s attention went back to the computer screen and the images on it. 

“Have you contacted Lady Smallwood about this?”

“This was an internal issue first. I would never approach Lady Smallwood without your involvement.”

He would normally infer that she meant he had her loyalty and to go above him to another member of the Circle about an issue that affected all of them was unconscionable to her. But there was something else. His attention turned back to her. 

Sitting back straight in a chair, sipping tea in fine china, Anthea looked every bit the unconcerned lady. Even if he knew her to be so much more.

“Tell me,” he said. She paused, a silent tell that there was something else going on. Something else he missed. And at that moment, he vowed that would be the last thing he missed.

“Her Ladyship is all kindness and grace to me.” Anthea began. “But lately I’ve felt a whisper of chill when I venture to her office.”

“You think this is from Westgrave?” he asked.

“I think...he might have mentioned things.” 

She was hedging, not speaking the truth of what she knew. 

“What sort of things?”

She only shook her head, lips clamped against accusations she could not back up with fact. 

It was all he could do to remain in his chair, to not go directly to Smallwood’s office at this moment, confront her with her actions. Elizabeth had always been kind and understanding; even their last meeting when she transferred the remainder of his duties back to him, she had asked about his office. An insult to his PA was an insult to him. 

There was something else at work behind the scenes and it was time to halt any progression of this before it went any further.

“Very well. Set a meeting with Smallwood tomorrow, early. I want to get to her before her PA arrives, I see that his hours are not in line with Smallwood’s.”

Finishing her tea, Anthea nodded, stood and returned the chair to its proper place.

“Very good, Sir.”

“Anthea?”

He watched as she paused, looked back at him. Only then did he grin mischievously. “I believe my brother might be a bit of a bother today. Please block all of his attempts to contact me.”

She returned his grin, not sure why Sherlock would be desperate to get hold of Mycroft but knowing it was probably a mark in her employer’s column.

“I’d be delighted, Sir.”


	15. Chapter 15

He felt like a teen again. 

Not that he had a phone when he was a teen, cell phones were larger than his head, astronomically expensive and only rich people who wanted to throw away money had them. No, he had note passing when he was a teen. But the sentiment of it was still there. Sending a message to someone you fancied, the fluttering in the chest as you waited for a response, the grin that spread across your face too widely when you received a response. 

Greg was going through all of that in half time thanks to mobile phones. A text he sent to Mycroft was read and replied to in a quarter of the time it would have taken him decades ago to send a message.

They had shared a text conversation last night that went far later than it probably should have but Greg was still smiling about it. Mycroft was witty and had a dry humor that only came out when he was comfortable with someone and Greg was thrilled he was that someone. A full day had passed since their night on Mycroft’s couch, tangled around each other, hands exploring and lips learning curves and pressure and Greg was already eagerly anticipating the next one. And the way their conversation went that evening, so was Mycroft.

It was another early day, this time his own design. Paperwork and preparation for a meeting involving the DI’s and DCI’s at week’s end. He needed to make his department sound tops, which they were, and he was going to need to go through the case files in order to do it.

He didn’t notice the people around him as he entered Scotland Yard until Pryce in Narcotics punched his shoulder on the way to the lift. 

“Good on ya, mate. Didn’t think you had it in ya.”

“Ta?” Greg answered with a bit of confusion, trying to keep from spilling his coffee. When he looked up, Pryce was already walking off with his partner, laughing about something.

The lift doors opened and one of the two women stepping off gave him a double take. He smiled politely as the doors closed, cutting off anything they might have said.

Sally was standing at the entrance to their department when he stepped from the lift and headed towards her. 

“Morning, Sal. You’re in early today.”

“I knew you’d be in early,” came her reply. “And you’re much too happy to have seen the Sun this morning.”

“Why-“

She thrust the paper into his hands before he could finish his response and after a bit of juggling, he handed off his coffee in favor of the paper. 

“What am I looking at?” he asked as he scanned the gossip and news articles, trying to find something that might be of interest.

“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll know it when you-“

“Bloody hell!”

“-see it.”

Right there in the bottom of the second page was a blurry CCTV photograph of Greg leaning into a black nondescript car in the act of getting in. The article was titled  **“DI “holmes” in on other brother.”**

Greg scanned the article, horrified that it named not only him but Mycroft as well in an illicit affair. It even hinted of nepotism on both of their parts, as evidence that this had been happening for years.

Frustrated, Greg closed the paper and shoved it back into Sally’s hands. 

“Care to make a comment?” she asked dryly. Greg glared at her.

“You know bloody well that there was never anything between me and either of the Holmes brothers in the past.”

“And now?”

“It’s a day old.” His good mood had vanished like dew in the morning sun and anyone who had been looking at them as they passed through the bullpen, immediately turned their head, finding something else to do so they didn’t get caught in the crossfire. “And honestly, I expected Sherlock to be the one to out me to my department in a pique tantrum, not the bloody Sun!”

Pushing him into his office, Sally shut the door, then leaned against it. 

“Better question is how did they get that CCTV footage. That’s the camera across the road from this building. Who’s sending government footage to a gossip paper? And why? Is it to implicate you or Holmes?”

Greg already had his mobile out, sending a message to Mycroft. 

“I’m going to bloody well find out.” He muttered. 

“Boss, you got that meeting on Friday,” she reminded him as if he needed one more thing to worry about. “I don’t think they’ll care if you're seeing someone, but they might care who you’re seeing.” She paused, snorted. “Actually, if you get ahead of this, you might be able to spin it in your favor. An in with the British government? Can’t hurt?”

Greg glanced up at her expression, wide eye and faux innocence as if she were trying to convince him to take a shot, and he felt himself smile, the anger fading just a little. 

“Really, you need to take your test. You’d make a great DI.”

She scoffed. “I’m not marketable. A risk.”

He wagged his eyebrows even as he kept an eye on his mobile. Mycroft hadn’t even read his message yet.

“Yeah, but I got an in, remember?”

Sally snorted, then looked at him coyly. “So. Mycroft Holmes, eh?”

“Don’t start.” He warned as he sent another message.

“No, no. I wanna hear this. Does he wear the suit at home?”

Nothing. Greg slid the phone into his pocket and looked up at his DS. “Actually, he does.”

“Ha!”

“I need to get out of here, I need to get to Vauxhall. Something’s off, I can feel it.”

“Well you can’t get out the front door. I’m surprised you managed to get through at all. There’s a crowd of reporters milling about the front entrance.”

“Came in through the garage,” he said as he picked up his suit coat. 

“Come on.” She opened the door to his office. Immediately a swath of heads that looked toward his office door, turned back to their own desks. “I know a back way to the garage. Had to take it to avoid a few people in my time.”

“I’m not going to ask now, I’m just going to be grateful if it gets me out of here without the paps spotting me,” Greg said as Sally pushed open a rarely used fire escape door. ‘But after this, we’re having a talk, Sal.”

She grinned back as she descended the stairs. “Can’t wait, boss.”

True to her word, she led him down a back set of stairs and through a hallway that no one seemed to know about, including the cleaners. It was dusty and dim but they didn’t pass one person on their way to the garage. 

The door they exited from was behind a service entrance, locked from the outside. As Greg stepped out, he could see not only his car but the paps starting to form a group on the pavement by the front entrance to the Met. 

Sally held the door open and grinned. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek.

“Thanks Sal.”

“Yeah, don’t expect me to help you get back in though, you’re on your own there.”

“Noted.” 

He hurried towards his car, starting it and pulling out. His one saving grace was that the picture was grainy and the last picture in the paper of him was from almost three years ago when he had been working on the high profile Water’s family case.

Pulling out of the garage, he tried not to make any eye contact with the paps standing around on the walk while making sure they weren’t going to step in his path. Once out, he headed towards Vauxhall, while still trying to contact Mycroft. 

His texts were still unread, and Greg was getting worried. In a last ditch attempt to reach someone, he tried a different course.

“Message to A,” he said into the voice to text. “Tried M. Got no response. On my way to V, seven minutes in traffic.”

A few minutes later a response came back to him.

**[M safe. Will clear way. Hurry.]**


	16. Chapter 16

“I hope this is important, I’m not sure why we had to set a meeting for this early in the morning.” Lady Elizabeth Smallwood said as she stepped into Mycroft’s office. She took the offered seat then the delicate china cup of tea Anthea offered. “The only reason I didn’t insist on a later time is I have a full schedule today and you were quite insistent.”

Mycroft in his ever-present seat of authority behind his own desk nodded his thanks towards Anthea as she handed him his own cup then went to take a seat a little away from them both but still close enough that she could hear the conversation. Lady Smallwood noted her position with a raised eyebrow before turning back to Mycroft.

“I asked for such an early meeting because I wanted to speak with you about your assistant, Stuart Westgrave.”

“Well,” huffed Lady Smallwood delicately as she sipped her tea. “Small comfort I’m not in an interrogation room again.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied dryly. “It seems this assistant isn’t intelligent enough to implicate you. Captain Croker, however…” he let his words trail off. Lady Smallwood frowned as she sat forward.

“What are you talking about Mycroft? Be forthcoming immediately or this interview is over.”

“Very well, Stuart Westgrave is attempting to commit espionage. Poorly.”

Lady Smallwood smiled, sipped her tea again, before she spoke. “Do be serious Mycroft. Westgrave came to me with his concerns a while ago and I told him he can’t accuse you without evidence.

For a moment, Mycroft stared at her as if she’d just declared that England was going to a Presidential system of Government. 

“Me? Espionage? Are you mad?”

“No, not espionage.” Lady Smallwood waved off his outrage with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t think you have a traitorous bone in your body. I’m speaking of the accusation of inappropriate conduct between a superior and a lesser.”

Mycroft blinked, then glanced at Anthea who was focused on her phone seemingly ignoring the conversation. Her body language told a different story, one of discomfort, awkwardness. His eyes narrowed, turning back to Lady Smallwood as he quickly put the pieces together. His already straight posture straightened further, and he stared Lady Smallwood down. 

“Unlike Mr. Westgrave, my PA has been a loyal member of this organization for years and I resent the tawdry accusation that I am somehow engaged in a liaison with her.” A hand raised to silence her as she opened her mouth to protest. “It is a smear campaign of someone who realized that in order to rise in this organization one must be cutthroat. What he has failed to understand that if one is attempting to cut the throat of a superior, one must also check his tracks.” 

Typing in a few keys, he flipped his laptop around to face her. 

“This is what I am talking of,” he snapped as the video evidence played on the laptop screen. “Westgrave enters the inner offices of the Circle at 3:03 am using the keycard and passcode of Captain Croker. Had Croker not come down before he left for his emergency to ask Anthea to reschedule his meeting with me, Westgrave would’ve gotten away with it. As it was, Croker had given Anthea his emergency code access which chimed in at 3:03 am the other morning. At 3:05 he uses the access code once again to unlock one of the main computers. You see he finds CCTV footage and finally, at 3:12, you see him attempt to access the files on Sherrinford not once but twice before giving up.” 

Lady Smallwood’s face went through a myriad of expressions before settling on annoyance and resolution. Mycroft continued, his voice still icy as he whipped through his speech.

“I had my PA go through his keystrokes yesterday and he found access to old CCTV camera footage over the last few days. I’m not sure what exactly he was looking for but he spent a large amount of time on his project.”

“Sir.” Anthea’s voice was soft yet firm, catching first his and then Lady Smallwood’s attention. 

She’d been going through her emails, and notifications, listening to the conversation but saying nothing. It was her job to be nearly invisible. One of her alerts buzzed and she clicked to it, frowning when she saw Mycroft’s name instead of Sherlock’s. Opening the access to the article in the Sun, her heart dropped when she recognized the grainy CCTV footage of Mycroft’s car in front of Scotland Yard and a silver haired Detective Inspector leaning as if to get into the car. The headline read “ **DI “holmes” in on other brother** ”. Suddenly all of Westgrave’s actions made sense. He was trying to oust Mycroft, not her. In any means possible. When he couldn’t get to the Sherrinford files, he resorted to leaking information to the Sun of all places. A quick tap of a key and the information was sent to Mycroft’s email. He opened it on his phone, and she watched anxiously as the information popped up on his screen. He went red, then pale. His grey eyes flicked up to Lady Smallwood, pinning her to her chair as he typed in a few keys and the Sun’s article appeared on the laptop screen, its black and white incriminating glory including the leaked CCTV photo.

“I want Westgrave down here now.” Each word was carefully punctuated with an icy calm, almost freezing the room. 

Anthea's phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. 

**[Tried M. Got no response. On my way to V, seven minutes in traffic.]**

She could clear the way for him, let Security know he was allowed to come straight down to the offices without delay. If Mycroft was going to confront Westgrave, then he should have to face all of his accusers. A small part of her worried that Mycroft might need the backup, something she could not give, not in this perilous condition.

Picking up his phone, despite Smallwood’s protests, Mycroft spoke to the first person who answered, his tone clipped. “Stuart Westgrave. I want him in my office the moment he comes in. If he is here already, I want him down here immediately.”

Smallwood was on her mobile, speaking to someone, telling them that when Stuart came into the office he was to come to Holmes’ office immediately.

“Honestly, Holmes, I am so sorry.” Lady Smallwood slipped her mobile back into her pocket, a look of mortification on her face now that the evidence has been placed before her in black and white, or rather a greyscale color. “I can’t believe this happened twice.”

“This one wasn’t your fault,” This one act of kindness towards a colleague. “Westgrave was assigned to you, or rather I think, orchestrated his assignment to you. Something that, I’m sure if dug into enough, we’d find evidence for a great many things he did.” An eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps next time, you would vet your assistant personally?”

Anthea’s phone buzzed and she glanced at it. 

“Sir,” was all she said. Immediately two sets of expectant eyes turned towards the door.


	17. Chapter 17

It was going to be a good day, Stuart Westgrave thought as he strolled into Vauxhall, coffee in one hand, today’s issue of the Sun in the other. He’d just leave this out around his desk, in plain sight so Lady Smallwood would catch the title of the article. Clever title that, he had to give it to the writers. Things would fall into place swiftly after that. He’d have Smallwood on his side fully. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Flashing his badge as he passed, he was startled to see a hand shoot out, blocking his path. 

“Mr. Westgrave, sir. You are to report to Mr. Holmes’ office immediately.” 

Normally, he’d smile and ignore the order, let the puffed-up usurper come to him if he wanted to deal. But the security looked as if they would escort him directly if he didn’t comply immediately. With a nod, Westgrave headed towards the second set of lifts, one officer following him to press in the code that led to the underground offices. The man watched him step in and Westgrave rolled his eyes dramatically as the doors slid shut. 

His mind was already running scenarios. Holmes had seen the issue of the Sun, this was the only explanation for his being summoned. Holmes would posture, threaten. Westgrave would, of course, deny. He had the upper hand. Nobody knew it was him that had leaked the photo. There was no reason for him to be a suspect. He’d never done anything untoward. All of his tracks had been covered effortlessly and any rumors circulated were curated in such a way that there was no definite source for the information. 

The lift doors opened to a dim hallway. There was illumination aplenty, but the dark wood of the walls seemed to suck the light into it, leaving the path dim and foreboding. Another eye roll, clearly this was an intimidation tactic, Westgrave walked confidently towards the open office door. Inside was a plush office with an open entryway that led to another short hall with a door at the end. Holmes’ PA wasn’t at her desk. He wondered if she was even in the office yet. Surely because of their “relationship”, she had perks.

Truly this was the height of narcissism. No wonder people thought Holmes was intimidating. 

Westgrave refused to be intimidated.

The door was a dark heavy wood matching the walls and the interior. Westgrave hated the fact that he had to knock, to kowtow to this man. When he finally had this place, this would be the first thing to go. Or not, it did have an intimidating appeal to it. 

Arranging his expression into one of polite curiosity, he knocked on the door, three steady raps.

“Come in.”

The door opened smoothly and Westgrave stepped in confidently. Then paused as he noticed that Holmes wasn’t alone. Smallwood sat in a chair opposite the desk and Holmes’ maddening PA sat demurely away from them both. She didn’t even deign to look up when he stepped in, her focus completely on her phone. 

“Mr. Westgrave, so good of you to join us,” Holmes spoke, his voice crystalline. “And you have today’s copy of the Sun. How fortuitous. Have a seat.” It didn’t sound like a request.

Westgrave focused his attention on Lady Smallwood. “I was asked to report here? How can I help?”

“Sit.” The order was sharp, cold, threatening. Startled, Westgrave found himself getting a chair to bring up before he realized what he was doing. Sinking into the chair, he looked first to Lady Smallwood who looked uncharacteristically chastened and to Holmes, whose icy expression hadn’t shifted since he’d stepped into the office.

With a tap of his long finger onto the screen before him, Westgrave’s attention was fixed to the image of the article in the Sun, including the incriminating photograph. 

“Explain.” Holmes demanded. 

“I…don’t understand.” Westgrave stammered, acting as if he were confused by the request. The best course of action, he thought, was to continue this conversation as he would have normally. Deny everything, act sympathetic, offer help. “I’m sorry Mr. Holmes, I don’t pay attention usually to rumors so I’m not sure what this is about.”

“Try again.” Chilly disdain was dripping from each word. Westgrave frowned, then looked to Lady Smallwood as if she could explain what was happening. She followed perfectly, as he anticipated. 

“The Sun acquired footage from a CCTV camera across from the Met.” She supplied. He looked back to the screen, perplexed. 

“All it shows is a car and an image of a man. Surely, it’s speculation?” His attention went from Holmes to Smallwood, focusing mostly on the older woman because he was her PA and she was sympathetic. He didn’t think about how Holmes seemed to be able to look into his soul. 

“We’re more concerned as to how they received access to the image.” Lady Smallwood said. He looked from the screen to her. 

“Of course, I’ll help in any way possible,” he demurred. A glance towards the PA sitting in the back told him she was still focused on her phone, but the corner of her mouth was curled just slightly. 

“You deny any interaction in this?” 

Westgrave looked to Holmes, the very picture of shocked innocence. “Me? You think I had something to do with this? For what purpose?”

“Stuart…” Lady Smallwood sighed disappointedly. “There’s the matter of the rumors circulating about Anthea as well.”

Westgrave shrugged. “I am just as shocked as everyone else, but I don’t claim to know Mr. Holmes’ PA as well as the others. All I know is she doesn’t interact with the other assistants. I don’t propose to understand what she does with her time.” 

Another quick glance told him Holmes’ PA hadn’t turned her gaze from her phone, her expression still placid. It was beginning to become tedious. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Westgrave, you can explain this.” 

Westgrave turned to speak, already tired of this, when he froze, his stomach lurching to his throat. The images on the computer screen had changed, now showed images of him standing before the doors of the Inner Sanctum. Of him inside the large glass room, sitting in front of a terminal. Of him accessing the CCTV files. 

His heart dropped. Foolishly he assumed that there would be no cameras in there as it was a secretive group and everything was off the books. He’d made a mistake. A potential costly one but he could still pull out of this. 

“Captain Croker,” he began before suddenly the image changed again, this time showing a video of his computer’s keystrokes, his access to the CCTV cameras, his cutting and copying of images.

“Captain Croker left the office early three days prior for an emergency. Emergency access, as per protocol, had you bothered to read it, was passed to Anthea before he left. Your access triggered the alert.” The words were clipped, professional, icy. And suddenly, Westgrave remembered the words on the screen in the inner sanctum; Love, Antarctica, cork, Paddock.. He’d heard the nickname the assistants had for Holmes; The Ice Man. He had been so close, if he had only had the secondary access code. 

Desperate to deflect, he turned to Anthea, hurt outrage in his voice. 

“I’m stunned. I’ve only ever been nice to you. To treat an equal like this? I-“

“You are not equal, Mr. Westgrave.” Holmes snapped. “You are barely her lesser. You tried to play a game with peoples’ lives in a pathetic attempt to circumnavigate your own pathetic ego.”

He was trapped, he knew it. His plays were being countered easily and viciously. Holmes glared coldly at him from his seat.

“Only people who are obsessed with the size of their intellectual capacity play chess. Try Go,”  Holmes snapped. 

In a desperate attempt Westgrave had chosen the wrong move. He had chosen to attack the queen and that move had failed. So he went on the attack. Rising to his full height, he sneered at Holmes. 

“This pathetic attempt to undermine me to divert your own scandals with your personal assistant are laughable at best.” He spat out. “I am a Westgrave, and I am not to be spoken to i-“

“You are nothing.” The words rang out like a gunshot and for the first time since entering the room, he spotted Anthea’s head lift to look at her boss. Holmes had risen as well, ramrod straight. With a practiced efficiency that even Westgrave couldn’t match, the man stared down his nose at him with the disgust of looking at day old muck. 

“You are nothing,” Holmes repeated and the room suddenly grew cold. “You are the fourth child of a philandering father and a social climbing mother, your grades were so mediocre that your mother had to buy your way into Oxford where you fucked your way through top marks and when that didn’t work you paid someone to hack into the system and change your grades. You are a habitual drug user, a borderline alcoholic, a narcissist. You’ve conned your way out of several sexual assault charges and even more harassment charges, by name dropping Magistrates your father knows. You are in debt, wearing second hand designer Dior suits, desperate to make your mark and think the world owes you something just because you’re 143 rd in line to the Crown.”

“How dare…” Westgrave stammered, backing up but Holmes was around his desk, stalking towards him, ice cold murder in his eyes. 

“I haven’t even begun to dare.”


	18. Chapter 18

Pulling into the closest parking spot, Greg jumped out of his car, barely remembering to lock it up before running down the long walk to the front entrance of Vauxhall. 

There were a few reporters outside who turned towards him as he ran but he rushed past them, their shouts for a comment barely a blip on his radar. 

He finally stopped running once he was indoors, instead hurrying towards the security desk, his badge out. 

“DI Lestrade? This way.” 

The guard stood and escorted him to the lifts, pressing the button and leaving him there to wait. It seemed to take forever, Greg’s leg bouncing nervously. He pushed in before the doors fully opened and pressed the button for the underground offices. 

Anthea’s message told him she could clear the way. Which meant she had an idea of what was happening and wanted Greg there as soon as possible. But for the life of him he didn’t know why. He had hurried over here because Mycroft wasn’t answering his mobile and Greg was worried about him being waylaid by reporters, by someone in his department. By someone wanting to use this against him, against them. 

The lift doors opened, and Greg hurried down the hallway, walking as quickly as he could. The door to Anthea’s office was open and he stepped in. The room was empty, but the door at the end of the short hall behind her desk was open and he could hear Mycroft’s voice, deadly calm and frigid. Worse, he was deducing someone. 

“Which shall we discuss next? Your blackmail of a Duke in Lancashire or your embezzlement from your previous position where you barely escaped prison? Or perhaps it’s the attempted suicides of your younger sister as a cry for help to escape from your familial abuses? The racist rhetoric and anonymous information given to local tabloids regarding the former Duke and Duchess of Sussex?”

_ Oh fuck. _

Hurrying the last few steps, Greg stepped through the open office door. Mycroft was standing by his desk, ice blue eyes flashing with menace and there was a squirrelly man almost cowering three steps from him. 

“Perhaps the harassment and so-called alleged rape of a-“

“Musgrave!”

The word, short and loud, shot through the room, startling everyone in it. Anthea’s head whipped around to the front door, a look of relief slipped onto her features for a millisecond. An older lady, sitting pale and horrified, startled at the word, her gaze going towards him. The man jumped, spun, paled. And Mycroft….

He had paused, whatever he was going to say next silenced. His already pale features flushed and his mouth clicked shut. Their gaze met across the room and Greg let out a soft shaky sigh. 

“Mr. Westgrave.” The words were a whip crack and the man jumped again, turning back towards Mycroft. 

“You are relieved from duty. You will follow Security when they arrive so you may pick up what little belongings you have and turn in all your access codes and badges. You will also sign yet another NDA that states, quite simply, that if we even get a whiff of you potentially attempting to sell or tell anything that happened during your short time in this building you will be locked up in the securest facility I can find and not even your parents will be able to find you. You wished to know what Sherrinford was, Mr. Westgrave. Speak a word and I will happily let you find out.”

The man, Westgrave, visibly shaking now, turned to the older woman who was now standing, watching him, disappointment in her eyes.

“Lady Smallwood…” he stammered. Greg blinked. He heard of Smallwood from Sherlock once. The woman whose previous personal assistant was instrumental in breaking the cover of and eventually murdering Mary Watson. The woman stood, her own features hardening into stone. 

Behind him, he heard footsteps and quickly moved further into the room and closer to where Anthea still sat.

“Mr. Westgrave.” Lady Smallwood’s tone was unforgiving, “You will follow us to your former office.”

Two security officers stepped in, flanking the man who slumped in defeat. A quick glance from Lady Smallwood towards Mycroft and then she stepped around the three men, leading the way from the office. 

Greg waited with bated breath, the entire office quiet as the sound of steps echoed through the hallways, fading until they disappeared completely. 

Anthea was the first to breathe, Greg following after. With a shaky grin, he looked down at the woman. 

“What the hell just happened?”

===============================================================

It was all over before the end of the day. 

Stuart Westgrave was publicly escorted back to his office, two security officers at his side and Lady Smallwood leading the procession. They waited just outside the office as he was forced to gather up what few things he had acquired, and then he was escorted to Smallwood’s office where he was forced to sign the aforementioned non-disclosure agreement. 

The public escort through the main part of the building and up to the offices succeeded in its goal, to catch the attention of the incoming personal assistants, as well as anyone else that happened to show up for work at that time. Before Westgrave had finished signing the papers and handed over his access passes and badge, the assistants’ rumor mill was awash with speculation and conjecture regarding what some had seen and others had heard. As he was escorted out, box with his possessions in hand, the general consensus was Westgrave had gotten caught in his games. Most of them agreed that they'd heard any rumors about anything from him first so he must have started them. Whatever he was playing was dangerous enough, if he was careless enough to be found out, then it was all on him and they certainly wouldn’t be risking their own careers to help him out. 

Defeated, blacklisted and furious, Stuart Westgrave, 143rd in line for the Crown, was escorted from the premises of Vauxhall, his name already being put in the system as a pariah. Any dealings, potential blackmail, favors he might have had at one time, vanished in the wind with the flourish of a pen and a keystroke. 

==================================================================

“Inspector,” Anthea’s smooth voice paved the silence in the room. “What brings you here this early in the morning?”

Greg blinked, glancing at the woman then to Mycroft. “Oh. The Sun. We made the papers.” He winced, scratched the back of his head. “Wanted to warn you, but couldn’t get a hold of you. So...I decided to come down.” 

“That was very kind, Inspector,” she answered, a soft smile on her lips, as she turned her look to Mycroft. “Sir? I’ll set up a rebuttal?”

“No.” 

They both looked at him. His focus was on Greg, questioning. Greg’s smile in return was the answer. 

“No,” Mycroft repeated. “Send a rebuttal stating only that someone accessed and leaked stolen government footage of a scheduled meeting between the Met and the Crown and criminal measures will be taken against the paper for publishing obvious CCTV footage.” 

Anthea didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Very good, Sir. Shall I let the Met know Inspector Lestrade will not be returning today?”

Greg turned to Anthea with a head shake. “Nah, I got paperwork to do and I’m sure you both have a mess to clean up here. I’ll see you tonight?”

The last was directed at Mycroft. The man nodded. 

“Is seven too late? We can order in.”

“Sounds good.”

A grin to both of them and he headed back towards the door. “Oh. There’s reporters in the front area of both your building and the Met.”

“They’ll be taken care of, Inspector.” Anthea replied, smile still on her lips. 

“Ta. See you later.” Another grin and a nod and Greg was out of the office, whistling quietly as he walked back down the hall towards the cloudy morning sky. 


	19. Epilogue

For the entirety of his life, Mycroft Holmes had only himself to rely on. Emotionally abandoned at a formative age, passed over for a daughter who was mad and taken away and a son who had a mental break and recreated his own memories, he’d been left alone to take care of his own neurosis. 

Emotionally manipulated in his later years by an Uncle who saw an advantage in a superior intelligent boy and pressed it to benefit him. 

Emotionally compromised by a younger brother who hated him and needed him simultaneously. Forced to play parent, caretaker, warden, brother, arch nemesis when the role demanded. Knowing the one thing that would help his baby brother but unable to grant it because granting it would tear a fissure in his family and his world that he was not prepared at the time to fix. 

And now, emotionally rescued by a man who understood all of his problems, his secrets, his neurosis, his fears, and accepted him anyway.

“Why not Sherrinford?”

The question was asked late in the evening, after shared dinner and shared intimacy, mouths and hands and whispered words of encouragement followed by sweat and heat and the scent of arousal in the air. 

The world around them was silent now, dimly lit by the soft glow of one lamp in the corner of the bedroom. Greg was on his side, arm propping his head up against a soft pillow. Mycroft turned his head to look at him. 

“Because that is where it ended. The damage had already been done and that was retribution. Musgrave is where it all began to fall apart. Where it should’ve been stopped.”

“But not by you,” Greg replied, his other hand resting against his chest. Mycroft could feel the heat of the palm against his sweat cooled skin. And he smiled. 

“No, not by me.” he agreed. 

Myroft had always been broken. While Greg wasn’t there to fix him, patch him back together, the other man’s affection and dedication did make the pieces of him less sharp. And that, Mycroft thought, was a beginning he could work with. 


End file.
